


Fill the Empty Spaces

by Glitter_Bug



Series: Lego Fun With Billy and Steve [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Dungeons & Dragons References, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Learning Disabilities, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Original Character Death(s), Panic Attacks, Some not exactly healthy coping mechanisms from both boys here..., Steve Harrington's Low Self Esteem, Steve Plays D&D
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitter_Bug/pseuds/Glitter_Bug
Summary: Steve hates an empty house.Hates knowing that there’s no one else there.Hates the quiet.A little exploration of Steve Harrington and what he loses (and what he gains).
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Lego Fun With Billy and Steve [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889752
Comments: 52
Kudos: 128





	1. Empty Houses

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my Lego series but- shock horror- this one contains no Lego.  
> It can totally be read as a stand alone.
> 
> Warnings for neglectful parents (oh hi Harringtons), minor OC character death, descriptions of D&D from someone who has never played D&D and probably incorrectly used Italian terms of endearment.  
> PLEASE let me know if there's anything I've neglected to warn for.

Steve hates an empty house.

Hates knowing that there’s no one else there.

Hates the quiet.

Even with his father at work- and his mother out doing whatever she did that ensured the Harrington family name remained at the top of the Hawkins’ social circle- Steve’s house never used to be quiet. He’d come home from school to a house filled with classical music and the clanging of pots and pans as his Nonna kept the house running. She’d come rushing out as soon as she heard the door creak open, never too busy to greet him, and bustle him up into a giant hug before herding Steve into the kitchen. He would sit up on the counter, swinging his legs and nibbling some freshly baked treat as his Nonna asked all about his day at school and his friends and his lessons- their conversation flowing between Italian and English. Then they’d sit together and his Nonna would try her hardest to help Steve with his homework, both looking over the sheets of Math problems or diagrams of cells and bones and things neither of them could pronounce. Steve would bite his lip, his pencil, the skin around his fingernails and get more and more upset and confused until his Nonna would pull him to her, tuck him right under her arm and say,  
“Don’t get upset, don’t let it worry you Stefano, it’s not important. _Paperotto_ , there are more useful things to know than this.”

Then she’d set him off making dinner, show him how to knead out his frustration and put all of his pent-up energy into vigorous mixing and whisking. She taught him which flavours always went well together and which ones needed a more careful balance, frowning at Steve’s mother’s collection of dusty herb and spice jars. She stood back and let him make mistakes, then guided him with gentle words until he figured out how to fix it for himself.

And once he was calm and smiling and full of whatever delicious meal they’d created together, they’d sit back down and go over the homework again, and Steve would find it easier this time, would remember a method or a key word or _something_ that meant it didn’t seem as daunting. And his Nonna would sit back with a proud smile. Tell him how good he was for trying again, for not giving up just because it had seemed hard.  
“You worked for it _cucciolo,_ and you did it. Does it matter if it took a little longer?”

And even when she got sick, even when she didn’t have the strength to crash the pots or twirl to the music, Steve’s Nonna still filled the house with sound for him. She’d spend the day sitting in her chair watching quiz shows or reading or napping but she’d always _always_ be standing in the hallway, propping herself up on her walker, waiting for Steve as he got in from school. Would always be there with a hug and a kiss and a myriad of questions about his day, about Tommy and Carol and whoever else Steve had mentioned the week before. She always remembered and she always asked. She was _always_ there.

So when she wasn’t, Steve knew what it meant.

  
  
Everything she had was all left to Steve.

It amounted to a sizable fund, and she’d left a note simply telling him to use for something that would make him happy. His father insisted that Steve put it away, lock it in some account ready for college, ready for when he was more sensible.

Steve wasn’t too bothered anyway; it was her cookbooks- tatty and splattered and annotated and now _his_ \- that he treasured the most.

Steve remembered when the house became quiet. Silent.

When his parents decided that they’d played Happy Families for long enough, and that work and social engagements and conferences and other cities, other states, other countries needed them more than Steve did.

When he no longer had anyone to greet him at the door, and he had to pull together his own dinner. When hearty meals cooked with love and always one extra handful of garlic were replaced by things he could shove in the microwave. When he had to struggle through the homework by himself, biting his lip until it bled, chewing the end of his pencil to splinters. Giving up and pushing the papers back in his bag. Ignoring the red F’s and the ‘See me’s on the ones already in there.

Steve tried to fill the silence himself. Played pop music which just seemed to echo and amplify the emptiness of the rooms. He tried keeping the television on, but the soap opera families reminded him of what he was lacking. He’d invite Tommy and Carol over as often as he could, and when all else failed and he was facing a weekend by himself, he’d throw a party and fill his house with beer, loud music and enough bodies to chase away his loneliness. And it seemed to work, raised his profile enough at school to win him admirers and hangers-on, if not true friends, meant he always had a party to go to, or a girl to invite round, meant he never had to spend a night alone if he didn’t want to.

And maybe Steve got a bit carried away, lost himself in the role of King and all the perks it bought. Played along with his preppy popular persona. Joined the basketball team and found something he was good at, something he enjoyed and that came easily. What started as a façade, a way to distract himself, started to become his identity. The smiles he faked started to feel that bit more genuine.

He was enjoying himself and who could blame him?

And then he met Nancy.

Nancy who was so _real_ and _good_ and better than all of that King Steve fakery. She made _him_ feel real and good and like he could be more, could do more with his life. Steve started to feel all of those empty spaces in his life fill right up. He started to think ahead to his future, to _their_ future. Started to see a path in front of him that he would be happy to follow. Nancy would go to college, no doubt about it, and maybe Steve could get in too- if he really buckled down. And then they could get a little place together, use Nonna’s money to buy something with a white picket fence and gingham curtains and cosy rooms they would fill with laughter and music and love.

For the first time in years, Steve didn’t mind his house being empty, because his life felt full to bursting elsewhere.

He stopped needing to fill his spaces with anyone else because Nancy was enough.

It all felt so right. _They_ felt so right.

Until it didn’t.

Until he realised that she didn’t want any of what he had to offer.

Even when he dropped the pretence and the _King Steve_ life and tried to be more real for her.

Even after he’d lived through a horror film and fought literal _fucking_ monsters and spent his nights clutching at a spiked bat and staring at shadows until the sun came up.

He still wasn’t enough. Would never be enough.

He was _bullshit_.

And he got it, he really did.

Not like it was news to him anyway.

And then there was Billy.

Billy Hargrove who swanned into Hawkins and dismantled everything, every shaky foundation of Steve’s popularity, with a roaring engine and a flutter of his baby blues.

And of course, Steve had noticed, you _had_ to notice Billy Hargrove, that was kind of his whole deal.

And Billy seemed to take a special interest in getting Steve to notice. Made a big show of getting into Steve’s space as often as possible. Wormed his way into as many parts of Steve’s life as he could and stole away everything that had once seemed so important to Steve. His followers, his keg records, his slot on the basketball team. 

But it was nothing that he hadn’t been ready to drop for Nancy. Nothing he cared that much about anymore.

He was too preoccupied with Nancy and Barb and a whole new world full of flower monsters with teeth; with college applications and a father whose only two modes were ‘I’ll call on your birthday if I remember’ or ‘you’re a disappointment to the Harrington name’; with a house that was starting to feel oh-so big and empty again. . So Steve really didn’t have any room left in his head to think about Billy Hargrove and whatever game he was trying to play.

At least until that night.

That night when Steve couldn’t ignore Billy Hargrove any more.

That night when _everything_ had crashed together. Nancy and Jonathan, monsters, the kids.

And then Billy, muscling his way in as always, crashing into yet another part of Steve’s life, threatening Max and Lucas and just being exactly where Steve needed him not to be. 

So Steve didn’t ignore Billy this time, he reacted. He _tried_. And earned himself a plate to the head, a scar in his hairline and a slew of new nightmares.

But at least Billy stayed out of his way after that.

Steve counted that as a win.

Steve really, really doesn’t get many wins, so he’ll take what he can get.  
  


Later on, Steve drops Dustin off at the Snowball Dance, gives him a pep talk, watches him go and feels content. Even more than fighting monsters, this feels good, like he’s helping. All the cliché making a difference stuff, he kinda gets it now.

But he figures that’s it, figures that now the Demodogs are gone or locked away or whatever, that Dustin will drift away. Steve doesn’t really see any reason for him to stick around.

So it’s one hell of a surprise next Saturday when Steve wakes up to a frantic banging on his door and finds Dustin, Lucas, Mike and Will laden down with bags and books and paper.

He’s groggy, waking up at 8am after a night full of thoughts of gaping flower faced dogs will do that to you, and he can’t quite take in all of Dustin’s frantic explanation as he pushes past, but as soon as he hears the words ‘emergency and ‘monsters’ and ‘deadly’ he grabs on to Dustin’s shoulder and holds him still.

“Wait wait wait, slow down. Monsters? Again?”  
  
Dustin bats at Steve’s hand on his jacket, “Yes Steve, we’ve only just got started. It’s going to take more than one session.”

Steve blinks. One beat, that’s all he needs, and he’s ready. “Ok you guys stay here, it should be safe if you stay inside. Don’t go in the forest.” Steve’s all action now.

“Why would we go-“ Lucas starts, but Steve cuts him off. 

“Does Hopper know? Should I call him?” Steve turns back inside, reaching towards the phone.

“Hopper’s not playing, Steve. Why would _Hopper_ be playing?” Mike rolls his eyes, giving Steve a condescending look.

Steve turns back around slowly, faces them all. “Playing? What?, it’s a game? You said emergency”

“It is an emergency! We just got out of the Cave of Garent but there’s ghouls up ahead and if we don’t-“ Dustin’s tone is still frantic, but one looks at Steve’s withering look shuts him up.

“It is _too_ early for this. You can’t just come here shouting about monsters. Not after what happened.”

Dustin at least has the courtesy to look vaguely apologetic for a few seconds, before he’s back to puppy-dog eyes.

Steve groans, rubbing the heels of his hands into his forehead, trying to chase away the headache he can feel. The world has just about stopped spinning, his heart rate more of a trot than a gallop. “And you have nowhere else to go? No one else you can bother?”

“No!” Dustin lets out an impatient sigh, “Mike’s dad’s working in the basement so we can’t go there, and we’re not allowed back at Lucas’s after the whole thing with the microwave popcorn-“

“It smelt so bad!” Lucas chimes in, and Mike makes a gagging sound.

“So bad!” Dustin agreed, “And if we go to mine then my mom just keeps coming in being interested and asking questions and getting in the way, and Will’s mom’s at work and doesn’t want us there without supervision.”

“She’s a sensible lady,” nods Steve, earning a little smile from Will.

“But _you’re_ supervision,” Lucas grins, “and you have space. Lots of it. And I can promise, hand on heart, that we probably won’t blow up your microwave.”

“Oh no,” Steve sees where this is going, starts shaking his head.

“Please Steve, please. This game is an integral part of our friendship, our bond. Without it, our group will fracture. Do you want that on your conscience Steve? Do you?” Dustin is staring up at him, eyes wide. Steve lets out a sigh, pinches the bridge of his nose. With the adrenaline out of his system, he’s tired and a little shaky and entirely lacking in energy to argue.

“Fine, fine, fine!” he steps back to let them in, Mike and Lucas following Dustin straight through, Will slipping by, a little sheepish, holding his hand up in a little wave. “Thanks Steve,” he says with a sheepish look.

Steve follows them in, watches Mike and Lucas take over the dining room table- setting up books and boards and even an actual miniature tower- while Dustin emerges from the kitchen with bowls and glasses. There’s a flurry of activity, as everything gets set up.

“Make yourself at home,” Steve calls out sarcastically, leaning against a door frame. There’s a timid cough behind him, and he turns round to see Will.

“Hey,” Steve smiles at him, “Everything OK?”

“You…er.-d’y’wanttoplay?” Will mumbles, his eyes most definitely not meeting Steve’s.

Steve is taken aback, thinks about how important the game was to Dustin, how much it meant to the group, and now Will is inviting him in. Steve can’t remember the last time someone wanting to include him in _anything_.

“Of course he doesn’t!” Mike called out from the table, “He thinks it’s dumb. And he doesn’t even have a character. Come _on_ Will.”

Will’s cheeks flood red, “Sorry,” he squeaks at Steve, stepping back to the table.

And Steve sees how Will folds in on himself, how he hangs his head and tucks his arms in tightly as he sits on the chair. Wonders how much courage it took for Will to ask him.

“Hey wait, maybe I do. If you nerds are going to take over my house, the least you can do is let me join in.” Steve wanders over, takes in the board and books and the little figures all set out on the table. “So, er, do I roll something or-“

“You can help me.” Dustin chimes in, “You can be my apprentice and then _,_ if you don’t totally suck, we’ll make you a proper character for next time. Consider this a _probation_. ”

“Ok, ok, cool. So what am I?” Steve examined the artwork on some of the books, “Some kind of knight? A wizard? This guy?” he points at a muscle-bound blond wielding an axe, “I like the look of him.”

“A plague-ridden mute goblin,” Dustin beamed at him, “But you have a pointy stick.”

Will sends him an apologetic look, and the game begins.

…

And all of a sudden, Steve’s life- and his house- is full again.

He passes his _probation._ Comes up with an idea, rolls some dice and saves the party with his pointy stick and they all cheer. Steve isn’t even ashamed of the whoop than he lets out as Lucas claps him on the back and Dustin gives him a high five. Even Mike seems pleased.

By the next week, Will had made him a character, He has his own little sheet with a name and a whole list of stuff and numbers and a drawing. Steve stared at the picture for a long time talking in all of the little details, how Will had captured his likeness so well, and then completely improved it. He looks...brave. Competent. Powerful.

The Party explained it all to him. He was a human fighter, which was easy enough to understand. Had some skills with weapons. He’s jumped up a few levels, because he was joining the group already and, according to Dustin and Mike, him being too weak would just be a hindrance.

“Of course I’d protect you as much as I could,” Dustin had assured him, “But this means you’re not always relying on me to save you.”  
Then Will pointed to the numbers. “These are your abilities.” He lowers his voice, “You’re supposed to roll for them so they’re random, but I…adjusted them a bit to suit you better. You have a lot of strength- which makes sense because you’re a fighter. And quite a lot of charisma because well...” he trailed off, ducking his head. Steve could see a blush spreading across his cheeks.

Steve looked down at the sheet, quickly checking the other abilities.

“Wisdom?” he asked, looking up at the party in confusion.

“Yeah,” Mike nodded, “You’re not smart. Obviously. That would be Intelligence, but you’re perceptive, you can read people.”

“Good instincts” Lucas chimed in.

“Huh,” Steve smiled. He pretended to read the rest of the sheet, feeling a warmth growing in his chest as his eyes were drawn back to the picture. Then he leant back in his chair and cracked his knuckles.

“Ok then, let’s go slay some dragons!”

He felt rather proud of the incredibly exasperated groan from Mike.

To start with, Steve gets confused easily. The plot soon gets pretty complex- lots of clever twists and turns and call backs that he has to keep track of, and it takes a while before he can reliably work out which numbers he’s supposed to be adding up. Mike gets angry when he disrupts the flow of the game and Lucas rolls his eyes a lot and mutters and even Dustin sometimes seems annoyed, but Will is always kind, knows how to rephrase an instruction or an idea, add in a little extra emphasis to a word and then Steve _gets_ it. Figures out what to do. And then it all starts to click. He gets pretty good at adventuring. The kids all get stuck on the _right_ thing to do- they have the quest and they forge on ahead, fighting with whatever pops up in front of them. Steve likes to explore; pokes at things and opens boxes and talks to the creatures before he goes to fight them. He started doing it to get back at Mike, throw him off his game a little when he’d been particularly annoying, but then it starts to get results- gets them treasures or clues or perks- and Steve starts to look forward to the way the kids will beam when he starts to describe his new plan of action.

And even when the D&D campaign is over, when they’ve vanquished the monsters and found the magical emerald and restored the rightful King Whatshisface to his throne, they keep coming over. Seems like once you help a group of kids hunt some interdimensional dog monsters, you’re stuck with them. More so if you have a house with a large television, a decent movie collection and a fridge full of snacks. Even more so if you have a car and no excuses when they need a lift to and from the arcade.

And he loves it.

He complains, loudly and often, at the mess they make, then shoos Will away when he tries to help clean it up. He rolls his eyes and says that he’s _not a taxi service_ , _Henderson_ , but he makes a mix tape of all the songs that the kids mention and he finds that it never really leaves his car stereo. Even Mike grows on him, once they get past the initial awkwardness that comes with a shared connection to Nancy, and the fact that Mike can be a bit of an asshole sometimes. He likes seeing how much Mike dotes on El when she comes round, and even enjoys mediating between Max and Lucas during their many, many arguments. He tries not to let them see how much it affects him when they present him with his own walkie-talkie ‘ _we figured you’d need one in case of emergencies,’_ Dustin had said ’ _Code Reds and anything weird. But we can all chat too. If you want to. We have a channel.’_ And then Steve found himself incredibly grateful for Dustin’s 10 minute rant about ‘ _correct communications protocol’_ which gave him a chance to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes and swallow down the lump he could feel in his throat.

And he’s doing well. Doing better. He has a house full of noise and chatter most days, and he’s even broken out his Nonna’s cookbooks again, in a desperate attempt to get the kids to eat something without a cartoon character on the label.

He’s happy.

Until one week, the week that Steve receives his fifth and final reply from his college choices.

It’s probably a rejection. He’s almost certain, judging by the size. He’s opened four others small envelopes and they all said essentially the same thing. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ And this one was a real long shot. It’s his Dad’s alma mater, somewhere fancy and expensive and exactly the right place for a Harrington. Just probably not _this_ Harrington. But his Dad has insisted, called him every night for a week asking if he’d sent the application in yet. Told him he knew he had a shot. Actually seemed like he cared.

And this envelope is slightly bulkier, there’s more than just the one folded sheet of paper. Not much more, not a nice shiny brochure showing off an autumnal campus and ‘state-of-the-art’ study rooms with a diverse group of friends all laughing together, but there’s something else in there. An extra bit of paper which is just enough to give him hope that they’re not dismissing him entirely.

So he opens it eagerly.

The main latter is the standard typed out rejection. He hasn’t got the grades, hasn’t got the extra curriculars, hasn’t impressed the panel with his essay. He’s not wanted.

But there’s a note too, handwritten and folded over a cheque. A cheque for rather a large amount. A cheque signed by Steve’s father.

Steve opens the note, glances at the fancy letterhead. Reads the few lines carefully. Gets the gist. They _‘appreciate the gesture and acknowledge Mr .Harrington’s connections with the college but regretfully they cannot offer a place to Stephen, even with such a generous gift_.’ They ‘ _hope he understands_.’  
  
That’s it then.

His last chance gone.

Steve lets the letter drop onto the couch. Lets himself drop with it.  
  
And he knows, just knows, that he’ll go to school and have to face Tommy and Carol. Carol who has a whole collection of the big envelopes. The ‘we want you’ envelopes. The ‘get you out of Hawkins’ envelopes. And he knows Tommy has at least one big envelope, Steve heard him complaining that Carol wouldn’t let him open it yet. They were going to do it together when all of their letters had arrived. Work out a plan where they could stay together through college. Find a city or a state or at least a general direction where they could stay close. _It’s stupid,_ Steve thinks _, it’ll last about a month_ , but also, _it’s romantic. It’s sweet._ Wishes he had someone so eager to share their future with him. Someone who cared enough to want their path to intertwine with his.

He decides that he can’t face school today.

Doesn’t see the point.

He can’t face Tommy and Carol.

Can’t face Nancy and Jonathan.

Definitely can’t face the kids.

He goes back to bed.


	2. What Can I Do to Keep You Around?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “H’rrin’ton” Billy slurs, lurching forward. He lacks his usual swagger, almost limping, as he crosses the short distance between them, but there’s still that leering smile on his face, a tongue poking out between his teeth, “Y’ here for business or pleasure?”  
> “Neither.” Steve said shortly, edging past Billy and heading back towards his car. Billy’s eyes catch on the beer in his hand and he held up his own, gesturing with it at Steve, who stares back with his hands on his hips.  
> “Great minds think alike Harrington. Think alike and drink alike. Cheers!”  
> ...  
> Steve is starting to see that Billy Hargrove has…layers. It’s a disturbing realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings for this chapter- brief allusion to suicide, mention of child abuse, mention of racism, use of alcohol and drugs, swearing.  
> Please let me know if I've forgotten anything.
> 
> Title from Over & Over by Fleetwood Mac (the album Billy puts on is Tusk)

Steve wakes up sometime in the afternoon, has a few blissful seconds before he remembers exactly why he was sleeping the day away, and then is hit with a sickening dread as it all comes flooding back. He sits on the edge of the bed, tugs at his hair, forces himself to get up and face it all.

He rereads the letters, both of them. He stares at the cheque. Pictures his Dad trying to come up with a figure that’s enough of an incentive for somewhere to overlook his terrible academic record, his slapdash essay. Wonders if he’s the first problem Robert Harrington has faced that he can’t solve with money.

Steve screws the letters up, throws them across the room. He holds on to the cheque, wonders when his Dad will notice that it hasn’t been cashed. Wonders if he’ll get a phone call, or if that will be the day that his father finally washes his hands of Steve completely.

Honestly, Steve wouldn’t blame him.

It gets to the evening, and Steve just can’t take it anymore. Can’t take the four walls. Can’t take the silence.

He grabs a jacket and his car keys. Find a pack of beer in the fridge and grabs a couple of joints from the little stash he has behind the spice jars. He has no plan but _hey_ , he thinks _nothing new about that._

He drives around aimlessly for a few hours, sees houses full of families eating together, watching TV together; sees couples walking hand in hand, kissing on doorsteps; sees mothers with babies in strollers, fathers holding the hands of kids in karate uniforms. He drives and he sees and he _hurts_.

He ends up at the Quarry.

Has a quick scout around first, but it looks deserted. It’s not quite warm enough yet for the usual parties, and it’s not really late enough for the couples who want to do a bit more than kiss on the doorstep.

Steve grabs the beers from his car and slumps down heavily, popping open the first one and looking out over the water. There used to be rumours every year that someone had jumped in. Always someone whose cousin’s girlfriend’s brother’s friend had taken up the dare and, depending on who was telling the tale, had either survived without a scratch or disappeared without a trace.

Steve forces himself not to think about how appealing that last one sounds.

He hurls his can out over the edge, listens for any sign that it’s hit the bottom. Doesn’t hear a thing.

He’s just about to open the second can when the roar of a familiar engine cuts through the silence. Steve has a second to jump to his feet before the Camaro screeches towards him, wheels skidding on the ground as it veers sideways in an uncontrolled slide which has him scrambling to safety. The car stops sharply, the ear-splitting music cutting off and the driver’s side door opening wide; Billy Hargrove lurching out, stumbling over his own feet as he grabs at the door to prop himself up. There’s a can of beer clutched in hid other hand. His hair is wild, blond curls in disarray around his face, and there’s a splatter of blood dripping from his lip onto his shirt. As he turns to look around, Steve notices a dark shadow blooming under his eye. Steve can’t help but feel a little thrill of satisfaction in his chest, a little vindication that whoever Billy had been fighting this time had managed to get in a few lucky hits. Had done better than he had anyway.

Steve started to back away quietly, hoping that if he was lucky Billy was here to either drink or fuck and would let him go without a word. Maybe if Steve was lucky, Billy would just push him into the quarry and do them both a favour. 

Steve has never been lucky.

“H’rrin’ton” Billy slurs, lurching forward. He lacks his usual swagger, almost limping, as he crosses the short distance between them, but there’s still that leering smile on his face, a tongue poking out between his teeth, “Y’ here for business or pleasure?”

“Neither.” Steve said shortly, edging past Billy and heading back towards his car. Billy’s eyes catch on the beer in his hand and he held up his own, gesturing with it at Steve, who stares back with his hands on his hips.

“Great minds think alike Harrington. Think alike and drink alike. Cheers!” He clinks his can against Steve’s, putting a little too much force into the action and splashing it everywhere. Steve moves away once more, a look of disgust growing on his face.

‘No. We’re not doing this. You don’t get to nearly kill me and then act like we’re old drinking buddies.”  
A flash of _something_ crosses Billy’s face. On anyone else, Steve would’ve taken it as dejection, but seriously doubted Billy had the range for anything beyond pissed off asshole. Whatever it was, it’s almost immediately replaced with a sneer as he slurs, ‘Well you don’t getta fuckin’ abduct my shtesh…my shis…Max and lie to my face about it’

Steve rolls his eyes, makes another attempt at leaving. Billy grabs after him, reaching for his jacket and misses completely- sprawling forwards onto the dirt.

‘Fucker, get back. Runnin’ away like you--“Billy scoops up a handful of grit and throw it in a wide arc over Steve’s head The small stones rain down, a couple catching in Steve’s his hair, some clinking onto his car. . It’s a petulant act, a tantrum rather than anything intended to cause harm, but Steve is already at the end of his tether, and this is just enough to snap it completely.

He whirls round. Stands over Billy. Leans right down into his face.

“I didn’t do _anything_ to Max,” he says slowly. Forcefully. Steve gives Billy a shove, sneers as he just sprawls back down. “I’m not the one who goes around hurting kids, Billy, that’s all on you.”

“Huh?” Billy sits back on his knees and looks up at Steve, confusion clouding his eyes.

“Lucas. Remember? The kid you threatened. The kid you tried to beat into a pulp. You were gonna _kill_ him.” Steve felt his hands ball into fists at the memory of that night, remembered the fear in Lucas’ eyes and the surge of absolute fury Steve had felt the moment Billy had laid a hand on him.

“He was-he hurt Max. Made her cry.” Billy said, his voice smaller than before. “I haveta… haveta keep Max safe.”

“He’s still just a kid Billy, a _little kid_. He didn’t deserve that.” Steve looks down at Billy, who’d lowered his gaze right to the floor, fingers flicking at the tab on his beer can, prising it up and off. “You’re a psycho.”

Billy glances up at that, his features screwing up in absolute anguish. ‘I know, OK? I know I am. Runs in the fucking family.’

Looking at Billy, curled up like that on the ground, sniveling and drunk, Steve almost starts to feel sorry for him. Then he thought about Lucas again, how the kid still froze whenever Steve was giving the Party a ride and they had to swing by Cherry Lane for Max, how he’d try to act casual but Steve could tell he was hunkering down in his seat, looking everywhere but out of the window. How the tension in the car vanished as soon as they sped away from that house. Steve feels his anger rise again.

“You’re pathetic,” he spits out, “threatening a kid just because he’s black. Acting like you’re all tough and- ”

“It’s not that,” Billy cuts him off, voice pained, “Christ Harrington, I’m not…that’s not why. I don’t give a shit about that kind of thing. But if _he_ finds out…if he saw…he’d hurt her. Can’t let him hurt Max.”

Billy’s voice cracks on the last word, and he pulls his knees up, dropping his head down onto them and grabbing at his hair.

Steve knows he’s missing something. He was used to feeling lost but this is more than that. There’s a thread somewhere that he’s just not grasping, and the confusion is enough to quell the anger. He shakes his head. “Dude what are you talking about? Lucas won’t hurt her.”

Billy looks up, eyes shining. “Not Lucas. Neil.” Steve could hear the rasp in Billy’s voice. “If he finds out that Max is with a boy, he’ll hurt her. And a black kid? He’ll hurt her so bad…I can’t let him- I gotta look out for her. And Lucas. He’d get him. Send him a _message_.”

It all clicks then. Steve finds the thread. Feels it winding around his heart and tightening. He might not get algebra but he can put two and two together, and he’s pretty sure he knows kind of message Billy means. Knows it’s probably a very similar message to the black eye and split lip Billy is sporting. He sinks down beside Billy, softening his voice.

“Your Dad?”  
  
Billy nodded once, slowly, and then dropped his head again.

“He’s racist?”

“Big time.”

“He hurts Max?”

“No!” Billy looked up at that, looking Steve straight in the eye. “He hasn’t touched her yet. He still- he still loves her.”

There’s something in his expression again, and Steve is starting to see that Billy Hargrove has…layers. It’s a disturbing realisation.

Billy let out a deep sigh, fingers raking through his curls, “There’s always a line with Neil and I can’t let her cross it.”

Steve is in uncharted territory, knows his next question will make or break whatever they’ve got going on. Has the potential to absolutely destroy whatever is currently building between them. But Steve’s brave. He’s dumb but he’s brave and when that’s combined with the way his heart twists at the sight of Billy looking so lost and desolate and desperate then, well, he has to forge ahead.

“He hurts you?”

Billy tenses up beside him. Holding his breath. Steve’s prepared for the worst, but he isn’t sure whether that would be Billy punching him again, or if it’s Billy getting up and leaving without a word. Going back to keeping his distance. Somehow the latter option hurts the most to think about.

“Sometimes.” It’s quiet. An exhalation that Steve would’ve missed if he didn’t have every single atom of his body focused on the boy beside him. “Most days... I usually deserve it.” Steve notes the way Billy’s hands shake, the way Billy tucks them away and tries to hide it. Hide any sign of weakness.

“No.” Steve answer is out before he can stop himself and his voice is loud, too loud. Billy jolts a little and Steve kicks himself, hating the way Billy’s expression immediately rearranges itself, losing all of the vulnerability and openness as he plastered on a fake smile. A leer. Hard eyes. Entirely convincing to anyone who hadn’t seen Billy just a minute before, but still utterly transparent to anyone bothering to look a little closer.

“Trust me, I’m-“

Steve cuts him off, “You don’t deserve that.” He doesn’t know much, but he knows this. “You don’t”.

Steve watches as Billy’s mask shattered, as he drops his head into his hands.

Then Steve watches as Billy Hargrove starts to cry.

Honestly, Steve would have been less surprised if Billy’s mouth had opened like a flower right there. At least he would’ve known what to do. Fighting monsters was right in his wheelhouse. Dealing with your old enemy-slash-potential friend while he’s sobbing drunkenly was most definitely not one of Steve’s skills.

He figured Billy would bite his hand off if Steve tried any kind of physical contact, would spit out a cutting insult if Steve offered any words of comfort.

So Steve did the only thing he could think of. Reached down into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled joint, offering it out to Billy with a nudge to his shoulder.

Billy looks up, rubbing his hands over his face and taking a couple of wet sounding breaths. Coughs a few times. Scrubs the back of his hand under his nose and wipes it onto his jeans. He plucks the joint from Steve’s fingers and gives an approving nod. “Didn’t know you were a stoner Harrington”

Steve scoffed, “It’s one joint man, I’m not a total delinquent.”

“And yet here you are, hanging out with me.” Billy’s tone was light, but Steve still felt a squeeze of guilt in his gut.

“Hey, I didn’t mean-before- what I said. You’re not a psycho. If I’d known…I’m sorry.”

Billy takes a long drag on the joint, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air above them. He passes it back to Steve, staring him straight in the eyes. “What the actual fuck Steve? ”

“Huh?”

“I threatened that kid. I hit you. I broke a damn plate on your head. And you apologise?” the utter disbelief in Billy’s voice makes Steve smile. He passes the joint back.

“Hey! I got a few good hits in.”

“One. Maybe. A lucky one.” There’s humour in Billy’s eyes now, starting to creep its way into his tone. Steve seizes on it as he takes the joint again.

“Yeah yeah, says the boy who needed Mrs. Byers’ finest crockery to make it a fair fight.”

Billy grins at that, but then he turns serious. “I’m sorry. What I did. To you. And Lucas. I was…angry. And so fucking scared. If I’d gone home without Max he would’ve... I dunno but I couldn’t…It’s not an excuse but it’s...I’m sorry.”

And it’s a piss-poor apology, really, but Steve can feel the emotion behind it. Knows that Billy means what he’s saying. Knows how much it must have taken for Billy to say any of it. He risks a comforting gesture this time, a press of a hand on Billy’s arm.

“I get it. And it was pretty sketchy looking I guess. I shouldn’t’ve lied. Couldn’t tell you everything- still can’t- but I shouldn’t’ve lied.” A thought jolts him suddenly and he pulls his hand away. “Wait- what did happen when you got home? How _did_ you get home?”

“You don’t wanna know Harrington.”

“Billy…”

“No. It happened. It’s done. Lesson learnt. I’m not one of your runts, you don’t need to worry. And Max was fine, some pig called with a sob story- told Susan she’d gotten all caught up in _something_ but she was fine- had been helping. Had been _responsible._ She didn’t even get grounded.” Billy is seething, Steve can feel the anger rolling off him in waves and he knows not to push, not to try any more. He chanced it once and got lucky, he’s brave but he’s not suicidal. He waits a few moments, waits for Billy to calm, for him to realise that Steve won’t dig any further, and then hands the joint back over.

“Ok.”

Billy nods at that, taking a final drag on the joint before stubbing it out on the ground. “That wasn’t bad Harrington, better buzz than that piss water you’ve got anyway.”

“Yeah yeah, sorry I didn’t break my dad’s finest whiskey out for our pity party.” The words are out before Steve can stop them and he holds his breath, wondering if he’s finally pushed too far. 

But Billy just throws his head back and laughs, getting to his feet and reaching down to pull Steve up with him. Steve accepts the hand after only a moment’s pause, feels Billy’s palm warm against his own as he is hauled up.

“Hmm I bet Daddy Harrington has got some pretty fine stuff in that mansion of his. Probably worth more than my damn house.”

“You wanna come see?” It’s happened again, Steve’s words are rushing out before they can filter through his brain. He must be higher than he thought. Or lonelier.

“Yeah? Mommy and Daddy won’t mind you bringing home a stray tonight?” Billy’s tone is jokey, but the humour hasn’t reached his eyes.

“They might if they were there, but they’re not so…screw ‘em.” Steve answers with a shrug, his eyes a mirror of Billy’s.

“Well then pretty boy, lead the way.” Billy moves away to his car, a little more swagger back in his hips now. Steve reaches for his jacket and pulls him back.

“Yeah, no way are you driving anywhere tonight. I’ll give you a lift.”

Billy huffs, twisting himself out of Steve’s grip, “I’m not leaving my car here all night, Harrington, I’ll be careful, scout’s honour.” He flicks a two fingered salute at Steve and continues on to his car. Steve follows closely.

“Like you were ever a scout.”

“ _My_ honour then.”

“That’s worth even less. Look, fine, I’ll drive your car.”

“Hah.” Billy barks out a laugh at that. “No fucking chance.”

“Well then you can drive us both. Least then I can swoop in when you pass out.”

“You’re not gonna give up are you? Fucking see why you’re Hawkin’s Best Babysitter now.” Billy grumbles, but he throws open the Camaro’s passenger side door, moving aside a blanket and pillow before- to Steve’s surprise- sliding himself in. He tossed the keys back out at Steve. “Only doing this ‘cause I’m tired. And I can’t take your bitching if I dare to break the speed limit ever so slightly. And you know the way so…” Billy’s eyes are fluttering shut as he leans back against his seat. Steve shuts the passenger door as quietly as he can, before rounding the car and letting himself in. He turns the key and the Camaro starts with a growl, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through Steve’s entire body. He can feel the hairs on his arms rising.

“Nice, huh?” Billy’s rolls his head to look at Steve, his eyes still half closed, “My girl can really purr.”

Steve grins as he pulls out of the quarry, it’s so dumb but he kinda gets what Billy means. His BMW has never felt like much more than a car to Steve- a hand-me-down from his parents. He was grateful for it, but it didn’t really hold any appeal. It was something his dad used to drive, practical and expensive enough without being flashy. Made to get Steve to and from school with room in the back for a couple of kids and a few bags of shopping. The Camaro on the other hand, well, Steve could see why Billy drove the way he did. This car was made for eating up open roads, for hot summer nights with the windows down and music blasting out. For freedom. It felt almost wrong driving it in Hawkins- stifled and confined. Steve would just be getting up to speed, start to feel free, and then he’d hit a stop sign, an intersection, a neighbourhood and he’d have to stop. He felt like a tiger in the zoo, pacing its cage and dreaming of wide-open spaces, only to be faced with concrete and barbed wire.

All too soon, they’re at Steve’s house; Billy still snoozing in the passenger seat. Steve takes a moment just to watch him, glance over his face- still bruised and covered in dried blood, but looking younger, calmer. The lights from the house, _always on, keep it lit up and then they won’t come_ cast Billy’s face in a warm glow. Steve wonders if this was how Billy would’ve looked in California, if he’d had friends that made him laugh, if he’d had a girlfriend that got to see him like this, unguarded. If she counted the freckles on his face, if she kissed them. Steve wonders if Billy had been happier back there. Wonders if he’d ever been happy since he came to Hawkins.

“Something on my face?” Billy’s eyes flick open, catching Steve staring. _‘Freckles’_ the word rushed to Steve’s brain without warning, and he hoped to hell that Billy couldn’t see the blush growing on his face.

“Yeah, a whole mess of ugly,” Steve knows it’s a weak effort, but Billy huffs out a little laugh anyway and Steve feels oddly proud of himself, “We’re here.”

Billy’s eyes widen fully as they take in Steve’s house, “Whoa. Nice palace Harrington. There a servants’ entrance for me round back?”

Steve ignores him, walking up the path to the front door. Billy shuffles out of the car with a wince behind him, slipping past Steve, who had paused to toe off his sneakers, and making his way into the living room, a trail of dirt behind him on the polished floors. He stopped to take in the sight of a large family portrait, a younger Steve standing in between his mother and father. All posing stiffly with smiles that don’t reach their eyes. Steve remembers the day they had it taken. The argument in the car on the way there, the way his suit had been a little too small, felt too tight around the neck because no one had noticed how much he’d grown. The way his Mom had fussed over his hair, brushing it out and spraying it into place. It was the most attention she’d given him in months, even back then.

“Where are they tonight then? Mama and Papa?” Billy puts on an exaggerated accent, flicking at the gold edge of the frame.

“Errm, what month is it?” Steve made an exaggerated thinking face, “Chicago, possibly. Maybe Italy if Mom needs some new shoes.”

“Jesus Harrington,” Billy whistles, “how rich _are_ you?”

“They’ve gotta use those frequent flyer miles somehow.” Steve gave a shrug, aiming for nonchalant and definitely missing it.

“When are they coming back?”

“Sometime in summer,” Steve isn’t _lying_. They will be back for summer. They’ll be back for a week. His mom will spend the whole time gracing the country club with her presence and his dad will call Steve into his office, find another element of his son to be disappointed by and then disappear on the golf course. Then they’ll be off again, somewhere else, somewhere without Steve.

“So they’re just never here?” Billy moves further into the living room, trailing his fingers over the various vases and ornaments, making lines in their light covering of dust.

“Nope” Steve said, popping the ‘p’ and readying himself for the usual comments about how lucky he was, how it was such a great house for parties, how great it must be not to have to worry about a curfew or chores or worrying about bringing girls home. He’d heard them all before, was used to forcing a grin and playing up the King Steve role.

Billy looks over at him, a small porcelain figure in his hand and a pensive look on his face, “Damn Harrington, that’s gotta get lonely.”

Steve didn’t have an answer for that. No one had ever said it before. No one else ever saw it that way.

“Uh, yeah, sometimes.” He was still lost for words, just watching as Billy places the little trinket down and moves over to the incredibly expensive and incredibly uncomfortable couch, falling onto it heavily- boots and all. He lets out a groan, burrowing into the cushions for a moment before propping himself back up to scowl at Steve.

“Hey, I was promised some fine whiskey, kinda feeling lured here under false pretenses.”

“Alright alright, keep your perm on. Always knew boys like you were only after one thing.”

Billy shoots a wide grin at him and Steve smiles back, “Gimme a minute.” He wanders up the stairs and into his dad’s study, making straight for the drinks cabinet. He knows the contents by heart; which ones could knock him out for the night after only a glass and, most importantly, which ones hadn’t already been watered down to shit by him and Tommy. He reaches right into the back, where his Dad kept the better bottles- the ones in their own special wooden boxes- and makes his choice, snagging a couple of crystal tumblers alongside. He takes a few moments to breath, realising he was still hearing Billy’s words from earlier. Billy, the first person to know Steve’s situation and see straight into the loneliness and emptiness at its heart. Not for the first time that night, Steve wonders just how much more there was to Billy Hargrove.

Steve was jolted from his thoughts by the blare of music from downstairs, the beat of a drum and a gentle strum. Hears Christine McVee’s voice floating up.

 _‘_ _Could you ever need me, And would you know how, yeah. Don't waste our time, Tell me now_ _.’_

Figures that Billy had got bored of waiting. Steve made his way back down the stairs, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm on the wooden box in his hand. He can see Billy’s hand grasping the back of the couch, fingers tapping out the same beat.

“Didn’t know you were into this kind of thing, I thought you needed more…noise.”

Billy pulls himself up to glare over at Steve, “It was the best of a truly atrocious bunch, Harrington. Anyway, hurry the fuck up, I’m only getting older and sober-er…er?”

“Clearly,” Steve smirked, cracking open the whiskey and pouring a little into each tumbler, handing one over to Billy, who sniffed at it and gave it a swirl.

“’s it expensive?” Billy asked, taking a gulp.

“Dunno,” Steve put his glass down and reached for the box, waves it at Billy. “It came in its own little house.”

“Damn fancy shit then. Definitely expensive. Certainly meant to be savoured.” And with that, Billy threw the glass back, gulping it down. There’s barely a wince- but Steve definitely sees his eyes water.

Steve moves to sit beside him on the couch, topping Billy’s glass back up and sipping at his own. Billy obviously felt he’d proved himself enough, and only takes a small mouthful before he puts the glass onto the coffee table, next to the coaster Steve had pointedly put there, and sinks down into the cushions, stretched out with his boots near Steve’s thigh.

“So why were you out tonight Harrington? I understand getting away from the Haunted Mansion,” Billy gestures wildly around the living room, “But there’s gotta be a better place than the quarry. That place attracts all the _wrong kinds_.” His face splits into a wide grin.

“Got some, uh, some bad news this morning.” Steve lets himself flump back against the couch, “I didn’t get into college. Any college. Nowhere wants lil’ old me.” Steve forces a smile and feels that familiar burn in his throat again, takes a swallow of the whiskey to try and chase it away, “I guess I just needed to be…away. Think things through. Make a plan. Be responsible for my own failures.” Steve knows he’s quoting his dad now, hates it, and so he shuts himself up with another drink. Pours another for Billy too.

Billy pokes at him with one boot, “You even wanna go to college?”

Steve shrugs, had never really thought of it as a choice. He was a Harrington, there was a path. “I’ve got a fund.” Steve hated himself as soon as he said it, but Billy just laughed.

“Yeah, I figured. Maybe Daddy H can gift them a new gym or something?”

He knows it’s a joke, but still Steve is flooded with shame as he recalls the letter from this morning, the one sitting crumpled somewhere around them. He takes another gulp to drown it out. “Yeah, no, that’s not- he can’t even pay somewhere to take me.”

“Fuck ‘em all then,” Billy digs his boot in to Steve’s thigh again, leaving it resting there, a dirty imprint against Steve’s jeans as he stretched out like a cat, arms above his head. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

Steve’s not sure what he means by that, he thinks it’s a compliment but he can’t think why Billy would be giving him one. “Do you wanna go?” Steve asked

“Man I’d go to fucking Timbuctoo to get out of this shithole.” Billy lets out a yawn, tries to hide it with another drink. “No little nest egg for me though, so here’s hoping for a scholarship.”

“Basketball?”

“Nah...English actually. Mrs. Benson thinks I have a chance.” Another yawn. Bigger this time. “But I’ve still got a year to figure it out, so who knows.”

“Oh yeah, forgot you were just a kid,” Steve murmured, letting his head droop back. His eyes fluttered a little, feeling heavier with each blink.  
  
“Yeah? You’re a shit babysitter then. Got me all drunk,” Billy’s own voice is starting to slow down, his words a little slurred.

“You like English?” Steve asks, he doesn’t know why he asked, but it seems important, somehow, to know something more about Billy. To start to discover some of those facets while he’s all open like this. Find out as much as he can before Billy’s shuts him out. Before he leaves and never bothers coming back.

“Yeah, ‘s’good, I like to read, like to talk about it, pick it all apart. Like how you can argue it. Not always just right or wrong.’

“Mmm- you’re so smart,” Steve lets his eyes shut completely. It’s nice. The music fills the room, wraps around him. He can hear Billy breathing beside him, feels the weight of those boots against his leg. He feels safe like this, safe enough to just let his guard down and rest.

So he does.

He’s just drifting off, just feeling his body tip right over into sleep, when Billy lets out a little murmur, a sigh. It mingles its way into the beginning of Steve’s dream. Blends with the feeling of a hand gently reaching out and touching his, strong fingers just glancing against his own before pulling away.

“Not always.”

***

Steve wakes a few hours later, wipes the drool from his face and looks over to see Billy still deeply asleep. His head is lolled back against the cushions, curls all mussed and mouth wide open. The bruising around his eye looks worse, and Steve wonders if it needs ice, feels a stab of guilt that he didn’t think to offer anything sooner. Billy’s arms are curled against his chest, but his legs are splayed wide open, one hanging off the couch and one resting on top of Steve’s thigh. Steve looks away. Manages to slide out from under Billy’s boot, propping a cushion there instead. Billy doesn’t even stir.

Steve’s mouth tastes like shit, the whiskey doing absolutely nothing for his breath. He steps out into the kitchen, gulps down a glass of water, and then a second. Starts to feel a bit more human. He pours a glass for Billy and then thinks about how drunk he had seemed at the Quarry, wonders how little fun a hungover Billy will be. Thinks about the phrase ‘bear with a sore head’ and grins to himself. Then he thinks about the black eye and the cut lip, the way Billy had swayed and groaned when he moved. He stops grinning.

Steve glances at the clock in the kitchen, and groans, it’s just past one in the morning. Even with his whole day spent wallowing in bed, Steve’s still exhausted. That little doze on the couch had been the most, and the best, sleep he’d had in weeks. He can’t face the thought of going into his bedroom, a whole floor away from the one other person in the house. Can’t face dragging himself upstairs into the silence. He thinks about heading back in to the living room, sliding his way back under Billy’s leg and just pretending like he never moved. It’s tempting. Incredibly dumb, but tempting.

Instead, Steve makes his way to the ground floor guest room. His Nonna’s old room. There’s hardly anything left of hers in there now, a few of her books and records and a bar of her violet soap still in the en-suite. Steve used to go in to sniff at it, used to close his eyes and imagine her still there, remembered how he’d pad into her room every evening for a bedtime story and a cup of cocoa. How he could face even the darkest night after that.

A little bit of Steve thinks about making some cocoa for Billy. Wants to see him wrap those hands around the mug, wants to know he’s warmed him up and filled him with some sweetness. Wants to see a little chocolatey moustache cling to his top lip. Something in Steve’s chest twinges at the image and he wills the thought away. Apparently, Steve wants a lot of really dumb shit tonight. Cocoa would be a step too far, he knows that, knows Billy is more likely to hurl the mug at Steve’s face or call him a pussy or just stomp out of the house in those damn boots that he never takes off.

But Steve has an idea- grabs at one of the crocheted blankets covering the bed and shakes it out. He imagines for a second that it still smells of violets; of violets and splashed cocoa and everything else that used to make him feel safe and warm. Hopes it can do the same for Billy.

He’s just making his way back to the living room, blanket and extra glass of water in hand, when he hears Billy mumbling, shifting. Steve steps into the room; he watches as Billy’s hand starts grasping, his arm moving up to his head and curling over it- defensive. He sees Billy’s other hand jolt out, watches as he tries to keep whatever he’s dreaming about away from him.

“No,” Billy mumbles, “No please, sorry. I- I- I’m sorry,” his legs curl up, knees tucking in close. Steve watches, stunned, as Billy begins to beg. It’s quiet, only a few whimpers and ‘pleases’ escaping his lips, but it’s already been too much for Steve. He drops the blanket and moves over, gets to his knees by Billy and gently, so gently, reaches out a hand. Places it carefully on Billy’s arm.

“Billy,” he whispers softly, “you’re dreaming Billy.”

Steve thinks about his own nightmares, thinks about what he would like to hear. Thinks about the words he mumbles to himself after he wakes up screaming.

“Just a dream, you’re safe. C’mon, wake up.”

It works, and Steve scoots back as soon as Billy’s eyes start to flicker open. There’s a few seconds, just before he realises where he is, when Billy’s face openly flashes with fear, confusion and then an almost palpable relief. It’s brief, just a glance before the Hargrove mask is back on, but Steve feels a jolt in his stomach at the intensity of each emotion.

“Hey there sleepyhead,” he calls, “Got you some whiskey and water, hold the whiskey.” He holds out the glass for Billy, who scowls back at him.

“Lame.” he grumbles, but drinks it all down. 

“You can stay here tonight, if you want. Got a guest room that’s comfier than that couch. Hell, I’ve got a floor that’s comfier too.”

Billy twists his neck, groaning in pleasure when it cracks. A groan that Steve takes a little more notice of than he’d like.

“I’ve slept on worse.”

Steve doesn’t like the thought of that. Thinks about the pillow and blanket in the Camaro. Puts another two and two together. Hates the answer again.

“Well, the offer’s there. Unless… do you need to get back. Will, uh, will your dad be-“

“Neil does not give a fuck where I am tonight as long as it’s _somewhere well away from him and his family_.” Billy pulls a face, puts on a nasal voice for that last part, goes to wrap his arms around himself and stops.

“My house far enough away for him?”

“I’d say so,” Billy nods, “But I don’t need a damn room Harrington. Couch’ll do fine.”

“At least take your boots off,” Steve glares pointedly at the dirt marks on the cream cushions. Makes a show of brushing them off.

“Oh well lad-di-dah, I didn’t realise this was the fucking Ritz,” Billy says, at the same moment that he’s reaching down to pull off his boots. He lines them up neatly beside the couch. There’s a hole in his sock, Steve notices, little toe just starting to peek through.

“You need, uh, you need clothes? Pyjamas?” Steve offers before he can think it through properly. The idea, just the image, of Billy Hargrove snuggling down to sleep in a pair of Steve’s old gym shorts and one of his shirts, does something funny to Steve’s stomach. Makes it flip a little.  
  
Billy just scoffs, “Nah, I’m good. Gotta piss like a racehorse though, point the way.”

“Upstairs, third door on the right. There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink, use whatever.”

Billy shuffles off, still a little unsteady but better than he was. Steve busies himself sorting out the couch, gets the cushions as comfortable as he can and lays the blanket out on top. He takes away the whiskey glasses and refills Billy’s water, leaves it within reach and then fusses with the blanket again, tries to make it look cosy and welcoming. He’s so focused on tweaking the edges that he doesn’t hear Billy coming back down the stairs.

“Well if college doesn’t work out, you’ve got a future as a maid. You’d suit the uniform too.” Steve whirls round, face flushing, and is confronted with Billy, clad only in his underwear and with his clothes under his arm.

Steve’s eyes widen, and he takes a few steps back, gesturing at the couch.  
  
“I’m ready-uh- it’s ready. The couch. For you,” Steve isn’t sure why he’s so thrown by being caught fussing, but he can still feel the glow on his cheeks and he can’t meet Billy’s eyes.

“Thanks,” Billy claps him on the shoulder as he settles back down. Slides himself under the blanket and hums happily. “If I’m not dead in the morning, we’ll go back for your car, OK?”

“Ok,” Steve nods, but Billy’s already turned to the side, eyes closed and knees drawn up.

Steve leaves the room, turns the lights down, but not off.

His bedroom seems like it’s miles away. The stairs are an insurmountable obstacle. There’s no comfort to be found up there anyway.

He goes back to his Nonna’s room.

Leaves the door open and curls up on the bed.

Imagines the violets. The cocoa.

If he listens really hard, he’s sure he can hear Billy snoring.

He falls asleep almost immediately.


	3. Let the Crisis Become a Bridge... and Cross that Bridge Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Morning sunshine,” Billy’s voice is a little husky, but he doesn’t seem too worse for wear, “You had eggs and you had bacon, so I made eggs and bacon”
> 
> “Inspired,” Steve can already feel a smile spreading across his face, Billy seems so relaxed, so at home in the Harrington kitchen. There are plates out on the side, the table all set with mats and cutlery. Steve’s no longer a stranger to a group breakfast, the Party have had a few sleepovers at his but their mornings tend to involve a lot more sugary cereal and shouting. This feels somewhat more civilised.
> 
> It’s nice, Steve thinks. Could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter here, it was starting to get away from me so I split it into two. The next chapter should be along soon!  
> Also I'm doing some rearranging with the series order so it makes a little more sense. There wasn't even going to _be_ a series when I first started, hence the muddle!
> 
> Additional warnings for this one: Few mentions of Billy's injuries, bit of a panic attack/anxiety, mention of character death. Think that's it but, as always, let me know if I've missed one.

Steve sleeps well that night, actually sleeps deeply for the first time in week.

He wakes up to the chatter of a radio and the smell of bacon frying.

Thinks he must be dreaming, thinks for one glorious, heart-breaking moment that it’s his Nonna in the kitchen, up early and making breakfast. Closes his eyes and lets himself be little again, little and safe and loved, just for a moment.

Then he hears a clatter of pans. A muffled ‘Fuck!’

Definitely not Nonna.

And then Steve remembers.

Remembers Billy finding him at the quarry. Remembers them fighting and talking and drinking together. Remembers tucking Billy up on that damn uncomfortable couch last night. Remembers, with a sudden blush, the fact that Billy was all curled up under his Nonna’s blanket wearing nothing but his underwear. He feels a little prickle of heat run through him at the image. Pushes it down as he scrabbles around for some clean sweatpants and a shirt. Wonders exactly what sight is going to greet him when he opens the door. Wonders if the bacon smell and the whispered cursing he can hear will just evaporate as soon as he steps over the threshold.

Because honestly, Steve’s a little surprised that Billy stayed, he was half expecting to wake up to a trashed house, liquor cabinet raided and Billy absolutely nowhere to be found. Instead, Steve wanders into the kitchen to see Billy standing at the stove, spatula in hand over a spitting pan. He’s dressed in the clothes from the day before, and Steve finds his eyes drawn to a little speck of blood on the collar of Billy’s shirt. In the morning light, the dark shadow around Billy’s eye is even more noticeable, and Steve’s stomach clenches as he takes in the ring of blue and yellow bruising.

“Morning sunshine,” Billy’s voice is a little husky, but he doesn’t seem too worse for wear, “You had eggs and you had bacon, so I made eggs and bacon”

“Inspired,” Steve can already feel a smile spreading across his face, Billy seems so relaxed, so at home in the Harrington kitchen. There are plates out on the side, the table all set with mats and cutlery. Steve’s no longer a stranger to a group breakfast, the Party have had a few sleepovers at his but their mornings tend to involve a lot more sugary cereal and shouting. This feels somewhat more civilised.

 _It’s nice_ , Steve thinks. _Could get used to it._

“Well I woulda done tomatoes as well but you have absolutely no vegetables in that fridge. You’re gonna get scurvy.” Billy starts plating up the food and Steve steps around him, heading straight for the coffee. He can feel himself waking up enough to feel the after effects of the whiskey, feel the dull thud in his temples. He wonders how Billy manages to be so bright and unaffected. Wonders how much of it is just for show. He makes a pot of coffee, pours out two large mugs and places them down on the kitchen table, sits himself down too.

Billy pushes a full plate in front of him.

Steve takes a bite, it’s good. Really good. He says as much to Billy.

“It’s just breakfast”, he mutters- rolling his eyes.

“Yeah but there’s something else there,” Steve scoops some of the egg up on his fork and inspects it. “It’s kinda...it’s not just eggy.”

“Well yeah Harrington, I seasoned it, it’s not exactly gourmet cooking.”

And that’s when Steve notices the herb and spice jars left out on the countertop, and he’s suddenly glad that he restocked his mother’s supply of jars when he started cooking again for the kids. Not that they got an awful lot of use, the Party still preferring something seasoned with salt and grease or sugar over anything Steve could throw together.

“It’s good,” Steve says again. “Thanks.”

Steve’s not sure, but he thinks Billy might look pleased this time.

They sit for a while in silence, Steve eating the best damn bacon and eggs he’s had in a long time. He knows better than to mention the night before, doesn’t want to shatter this fragile peace by bringing up any of the things Billy had shared with him. Even the talk about college and scholarships feels like it might be too much in the daylight, a side of Billy that he only let slip after the whiskey had loosened his tongue. So instead Steve sticks to safe subjects, makes small talk about the weekend, about the new mall, even about the damn weather. A part of him cringes each time, aware of just how uncool he must sound, but Billy chats back. Gives opinions. Not seeming to mind the inane subjects as he leans back in the chair and sips his coffee.

It’s over all too soon. Steve having wiped the last crumb of his breakfast away with his finger, drained the last dreg of coffee. Their conversation has come to a natural end, and there’s no other topic Steve can think to grasp for.

“You wanna go chill for a bit? I’ll get all this cleaned away,” he asks, already stacking the plates up.

“Need help?” Billy sits back up, reaches for a cup but Steve grabs it first.

“Nah dude, you’re the guest. Go sit. I won’t be long.”

“Ok, I’ll ‘chill’” Billy makes little finger quotes around the word, ‘lemme know when you’re ready and we can go get your car.”

Steve takes his time clearing up the kitchen, spends a while washing everything by hand even though he has a perfectly good dishwasher. He wants to prolong this morning as much as he can. He’s not sure what will happen when Billy drops him back at the quarry, when they both get in their cars and part ways. He knows he’s seen a lot of Billy in a very short time, seen those parts that Billy strives so hard to keep hidden, and there’s a chance that Billy will resent him for it, will want nothing more to do with him. Will do whatever it takes to build up his walls again, higher and stronger this time. Steve feels something cold and heavy in his stomach as he realises that Billy has seen plenty of him too. Knows about his lack of a future, his empty house. There’s a phrase floating in the back of his mind, something from Mrs. Click’s class- _mutually assured destruction_ \- and Steve thinks that maybe that’s him and Billy now. But that doesn’t sit right with him. He can’t quite square it with the Billy currently in his house. Finds himself thinking of Billy as two separate entities. There’s _Hargrove_ at school, and _Billy_ from last night and this morning. _Billy_ who makes eggs and jokes about maids’ uniforms and is on track for a scholarship. _Billy_ who keeps a blanket and pillows in his car and has nightmares that make him curl up small and beg. _Billy_ who causes a pang of sympathy – of _something_ \- in Steve’s ever open heart.

When Steve finally steps out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he finds Billy standing outside, with a stick in his hand. He’s poking at the layer of dead leaves covering the pool.

“This is disgusting,” he stirs the decaying mess around, “Could be anything hiding in here.”

Steve shudders at the thought. He knows exactly what kind of things could be hiding in his pool, that was pretty much the reason he went nowhere near it and why he kept the curtains shut and tried to forget that it existed.

Billy drops the stick down at the side of the pool, turning back to Steve.

“It’s only gonna get worse if you don’t sort it. You need a pool boy.” Billy starts to walk closer, exaggerating his usual swagger with a sway of his hips, “You think Mommy would like it? Picture it. She’s lying there catching some rays, I’m strutting around out here in my Speedos.” Billy’s even closer now. Steve can’t stop looking. He’s picturing it.

“Oh hey Mrs. Harrington,” Billy’s voice is sensual, almost a purr, “Didn’t see you there. Heard you need a big, hard tool to help fill your leaking hole.” He makes a lewd gesture, really playing it up with a wagging tongue, but he can’t help the laughter that bubbles out as soon as he sees Steve’s face.  
  
Steve folds his arms, attempts an unimpressed look, but he’s struggling to hide a grin and he knows that Billy can tell. “That makes no sense. I don’t think you have _any_ pool experience.”

“Oh I’ve got experience alright.” Billy’s tongue is back out, combined with a wiggle of his eyebrows. Steve rolls his eyes, Billy comes even closer. Absolutely leers at Steve.

“Anyway, there’s no point if she’s never here. Such a waste of my…” Billy pauses, licking his lips. He rests a hand on his hip, wiggles his fingers which are spread not at all subtly towards his crotch, “…talents.” Billy winks and then turns away, shaking his hips a little as he does so.

Steve blinks, stunned. His heart is pounding wildly; he’s pretty sure that if he looked down he could see its outline beating out of his chest. He figures that it’s some kind of delayed reaction to the whiskey, or maybe the stress of the college thing is getting to him. Hell, heart problems run on his dad’s side, it’d be just Steve’s luck to be getting some kind of early onset thing.

Steve’s still thinking about it, still trying to get his body under control, when he notices Billy making his way to the little pool house. “All the tools in here?” Billy asks, shoving his shoulder against the door, “Gimme a minute and I’ll get it sorted. A thanks for letting me crash.”

Steve’s heart ramps up even more at the thought of Billy messing with the pool. The pleasant thrum in his stomach, the warmth that he’d been attributing to Billy’s breakfast making skills, starting to turn into something icy and nauseating.

“I-I-, uh, thought breakfast was the thank you?” Steve tries,

“Nah, breakfast was because I was fucking starving and my host was being a lazy ass.” There’s a scramble from inside the pool house and Billy comes out with a pole, a net and a whole host of other tools.

Steve can feel his stomach clenching even more, panic surging through him. He tries to push it down but it’s hard, he’s out of practice. He’s willing his legs to move, wants to put himself between Billy and the pool, but he needs to be casual, make it look normal.

“You don’t need to clean the pool, jeez.”

Billy gives him a bemused look, “I’m not getting in it like this, it’s no trouble Harrington, it’ll take me like 10 minutes tops.”

“No.” Steve takes a step towards him, he _can’t_ let Billy in the pool. Can’t risk anything happening. Not again. Not to Billy.

“Seriously, I don’t mind. Used to do it all the time in Cali to make a few bucks. Once had to fish out a possum,” he’s already rolling up his sleeves, shaking out the net, “Had all these rich-ass ladies squawking about a rat in the pool, and there he was, swimming about happy as anything. Cute little thing too. Those bitches wanted me to kill it but I let him go. Wasn’t doing any harm.”

Billy turns to Steve, makes a little shooing motion, “Go get changed, pop on your fancy little trunks and I’ll be done by the time you’re back out.”

“No, please Billy. It’s too cold today. Just leave it.” Steve can hear his own voice getting shrill. He reaches out for Billy, tries to knock the net out of this hand, but his hands are shaking so much that he misses entirely. Billy steps back, moves away from Steve’s hands. A playful smirk stretches over his face and he swings the net around, keeping it out of Steve’s reach.

“Nuh uh Harrington, you’re gonna have to try harder than that,” he steps closer to the pool, reaches over with the net and makes an exaggerated swooping motion, waggling his hips and dancing from side to side as he pushes the leaves around, daring Steve to come closer.

“NO!” And Steve can’t help it, can’t help the sudden rush of _everything_ that engulfs him. All the panic and the fear and the need to make Billy _stop._ The need to get him away from the pool in whichever way he can. Can’t help the way he yells, the way he just roars at Billy.

Steve’s voice echoes around them, seems to bounce off the trees and the house and fill the space in between. Steve’s ears are ringing with it and, from the shocked look on his face, Billy’s are too.

And then it stops and there’s silence, a silence that somehow feels worse than every silence Steve has had to endure before.

Billy gives him a look, a raised eyebrow and a ‘y’done?’ head tilt, and Steve feels like a toddler who’s just shocked themselves out of their own tantrum. He can’t believe he shouted at Billy. Billy who just made him breakfast and was gonna clean out his pool and now got screamed at for his troubles. Steve sees himself through Billy’s eyes, a spoilt little brat stamping his foot because he didn’t get his way, and he’s humiliated- utterly ashamed.

But then Billy drops the net, sends it to the ground with a clatter and a shrug. ‘Ok, Harrington, fucking whatever. I won’t touch your precious little pool.’

And Steve knows he needs to explain, knows he needs to find someway to make this right before it’s too late; but the very simple fact that Billy has dropped the net and is moving away from the pool, away from the danger is sending so much relief through Steve’s body that he almost crumples with relief, he can feel tears prickling at his eyes as the adrenaline of the past few minutes crashing out of him and leaving him weak.

But then Billy’s pushing past him, a hard shove to Steve’s shoulder and an even harder glare on his face as Billy walks back through the patio doors.

“Bill- Billy, wait,” Steve calls after him, reaches out for the back of his shirt. “I’m sorry. I… I know it’s dumb, I know I’m being stupid, but someone got really… really hurt there. I can’t let you- can’t face anyone else...” Steve flaps a hand at the pool, hopes that Billy can put together something from the mess he just spouted.

Billy turns around, looks at Steve, takes in his distressed expression, notices the tightness of his lips and the trembling he’s trying so hard to supress. Billy steps back outside slowly, keeping his eyes locked with Steve’s. “Hurt?” he asks.

Steve nods, swallows a few times, “Yeah. Really bad, they uh-shit…they died. Drowned. It was a whole- there was…” and _damn,_ he’s trying. But he’s been ignoring it, trying to forget about Barb, trying to forget that it happened here. It’s like he locked it all away in some dark corner of his brain, hidden it away for so long that his mouth doesn’t want to speak those words, won’t let them come out in case it makes it all real again. Steve runs a hand through his hair, tugs it, feels his breath start to quicken again. He _needs_ to explain, needs Billy not to hate him, needs him to-

  
“Hey,” Steve feels Billy take hold of his shoulders, feels him spreading his fingers wide- holding him steady- and stroking his thumbs in small circles just under Steve’s collarbones. “Harrington, c’mon calm down,” his blue eyes are filled with concern, his voice is low, soft, soothing. His thumbs keep up their motions, calming circles on Steve’s skin. “You’re ok, I don’t need to know. It’s ok Steve.”

Steve gets himself together. Manages a few deep breaths, then a few more. Billy holds on a little longer, just until he seems satisfied that Steve is calm, and then steps away, still watching him closely. Steve is mortified, knows he must be blushing beet red. “I’m just being dumb,” he mumbles,  
  
“It’s not dumb, I get it.” Billy’s voice retains its soft, comforting tone, but he’s making steps back to the pool house, “Want me to put the cover on? Then you won’t need to think about it anymore.”

It’s a sensible suggestion.

In fact, it had been the first thing Steve did when he realised he couldn’t stomach looking at the pool. He went straight to his usual tactic of ‘out of sight, out of mind.’

And it had kinda worked.

Until he’d had a nightmare, a vision of Barb swimming back through a dark tunnel, feet kicking wildly as she pushed herself forward, away from a writhing mass of tentacles and teeth. Steve had been at the side of the pool, lying flat on his stomach and reaching one arm down to grab her, ready to pull her to safety. She had been inches away from freedom, so close; her fingertips just reaching Steve’s when the pool cover had slammed down on her, pushing her back towards the monster, trapping her in the pool. Steve had screamed as she been pulled away from her, watched her face contorting in agony as she reached forward in vain, her fingernails scrabbling on the material in front of her.

He’d gone down and removed the cover that night, had pulled it off and thrown it into the pool house, still drenched in sweat and still hearing the scratch of fingernails against the mesh. 

And how on Earth could he explain that to Billy? How could he explain that as much as he hates smelling the foul stench of rotting leaves and seeing the lights reflecting off the pool, he just can’t bear to cover it up any more.

How either way, it hurts him to look at it.

He can’t explain it. He shakes his head.

Mercifully, Billy drops the subject. Just gives a nod, picks the tools up and puts them all back. Keeps well away from the edge of the pool.

“Come on then Harrington, let’s go see if your car’s still there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all kudos and comments- thank you so much to everyone that leaves them!  
> I'm very much at the beginning of my writing journey, so I do welcome constructive criticism too. 
> 
> If you want to come and chat about Harringrove with me, I'm on [Tumblr](https://cherrydreamer.tumblr.com/)


	4. I Need Somewhere to Go (That's All)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are we friends now?” Steve blurts out, then immediately cringes, smooth work there Steve, you sound just like a kindergartner.  
> Billy’s eyes widen and he seems taken aback. He’s silent for a few moments, long enough for Steve to start internally beating himself up.  
> “I guess it depends,” Billy says, his eyes fixed ahead, “You got any more of that fancy-ass whiskey?”
> 
> Steve and Billy's friendship develops...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah! I lied last time. This next chapter was NOT along soon. Sorry! I got tied up with some Cocktober fun, but now I'm back so should be updating a little more often (or at least, I have fewer excuses now...)
> 
> A little extra warning for some dangerous driving in this chapter, but I think that's it...

Steve is quiet on the drive, staring out of the window as Hawkins whips by at a breakneck pace. He turns everything over in his mind.

He’d had fun last night, somewhere sandwiched between Billy’s breakdown at the quarry and his own freakout at the pool, there had definitely been fun. Steve had spent time with someone his own age and actually had a good time.

But Steve’s pretty sure that Billy doesn’t do friends or, more accurately, Hargrove doesn’t do friends. Hargrove has lackeys and followers and girls hanging off his arm, but he doesn’t have friends. Steve remembers exactly what that was like, that superficial veneer of friendship and he wonders if Billy had real friends back in Cali. He imagines a bonfire on the beach, imagines a whole group of Billy look-a-likes, buff and tan- crushing beer cans with their bare hands and listening to screaming metal under a boardwalk. He pictures Billy laughing, pictures him throwing his head back and letting those curls fly. Pictures guys slapping him on the back, calling him ‘Bill’. Steve wonders if they send him letters and postcards, if they tie up the line with long distance calls. Steve realises he’s picturing a girl, blonde and tanned and in a bikini- twisting the cord of a phone around her fingers as she chats to Billy. 

Steve can feel a sour churning in his stomach. He’s still hungover. Billy’s driving too fast. That’s all.

He’s still zoned out when they park up.  
“You’re quiet,” Billy says, barely turning his head.  
Steve glances at the radio still blasting out Metallica. He’s not sure how Billy even noticed.  
“Yeah, I’m just...thinking.”  
“Don’t strain something,” but Billy’s voice is warm, there’s no bite to the remark.  
“Are we friends now?” Steve blurts out, then immediately cringes, _smooth work there Steve, you sound just like a kindergartner._ _  
_Billy’s eyes widen and he seems taken aback. He’s silent for a few moments, long enough for Steve to start internally beating himself up.  
“I guess it depends,” Billy says, his eyes fixed ahead, “You got any more of that fancy-ass whiskey?”

Steve’s stomach sinks and there’s a lump growing in his throat, but he should’ve expected this. Should be used to all of his relationships coming with a price tag. He’s a rich kid, of course people just want to play with his fancy toys.   
“Errm, we still have most of that first bottle left, and I think my Dad has some decent scotch. That’s whiskey right? Like Scottish whiskey? It’s got a weird kilt pattern on the box so I guess it’s-”

“Harrington, relax” Billy cuts him off, knocks his arm with an elbow, “I was kidding.” He turns to Steve, looks at him properly, and Steve can see something in his eyes, a mirror of the hope now bubbling in Steve’s chest. “Yes, Steve, we’re friends.”

Like it’s that easy 

And then they are friends. 

And it is that easy.

They don’t spend that much time together at school, Steve having slid too far down the social ladder to face mixing with his old gang, even with Billy there as a buffer. But when it’s just the two of them, when they bump into each other on the way to class or when they both take their time in the changing room, they chat, they laugh, they joke around. Like friends do. 

And if Steve’s started taking the long way to some of his classes, the way that makes it more likely he’s going to run into Billy, well then no one needs to know. He’s failing anyways, what’s one more late mark gonna do?

They spend a little more time with each other a few times after school. Steve ferrying the kids about, Billy in charge of Max. Both arriving at the arcade at the same time. There’s no point in either of them going home, so they may as well waste time together, it’s efficient, that’s all. Plus, Billy’s still _kinda_ new to town, so if Steve wants to show him some of the best spots for getting high then that’s just neighbourly.

And then there’s the weekends.  
They spend a lot of time together on the weekends. 

If it’s a good day, Billy will come over around noon, will saunter up the path and bang on the door and then flump himself onto the couch- with his boots off this time- and they’ll make a plan for the afternoon, usually involving beer, weed and a circuit around Hawkins’ less crowded attractions. Sometimes Billy will just drag Steve along on errands, the two of them picking up some dry cleaning for Max’s mom, or stocking up on groceries. It’s simple, easy, enjoyable. Neither of them need to be entertained by anything else, because they’re having enough fun just hanging out together. Steve rifling through the laundry bags to hold up Susan’s date night dress, holding it up against himself and striking a pose while Billy bends over, laughing so hard that no sound comes on; Billy daring Steve to jump onto the shopping cart, promising I’ll keep hold Harrington as he hurtles down the cereal aisle.

But if it’s a bad day, Billy will come over as early as he can. Will rev his engine and hammer on the horn until Steve comes out. Will barely give him a moment to get his seat belt on before he’s roaring off down the road, music blaring and eyes firmly locked ahead.

 _T_ he first time it happened, Steve had joked as he slid into the passenger seat. Made some quip about getting to the diner for the early bird special, ‘just can’t wait for those pancakes, eh?’ Billy hadn’t responded. Hadn’t shown even a flicker of a smile. Then Steve had looked over, had seen the angry red mark on Billy’s cheek, had seen the way Billy’s eyes were glassy and his hands were in tight fists on the steering wheel. And Steve had worried, had panicked, had reached out a hand towards him before he could stop himself,  
“Shit, Billy, what happened?”

Billy flinched, hard. He didn’t talk to Steve, didn’t turn to look at him, just slammed his foot down on the accelerator and wrenched the Camaro around the bends, speeding past stop signs and red lights and overtaking anything that dared to get in his way. Steve was used to Billy’s style of driving by now, used to him tearing up the road like there was no one else around, knew that Billy liked to push Steve’s buttons, to edge a little faster each time, overtake a little closer or leave it to the last second to brake for a traffic light, knew he liked to see how far he could go before Steve complained, before he swore. Before he started ‘bitching like some cranky old lady’. But Billy was a skilled driver and he was always in control. Always safe. Always aware.

This felt different.

Steve felt himself pressed back into his seat and he clutched desperately at the cushion as the scenery outside whipped by in a blur. Billy never changed position, not even checking his mirrors, his eyes staring at the road ahead and completely ignoring Steve’s pleas to stop, to ‘slow down, please Billy, oh my God please slow down.’

The Camaro hit a dip in the road and Steve’s stomach lurched, rose right up into his throat and back down again. The engine was screaming, Billy’s hands clenching so hard on the wheel that Steve could see the whites of his knuckles. There was a sign ahead, warning them about an upcoming bend, a sharp one. Billy didn’t slow, didn’t make any hint that he’d even seen it. There was just that same glazed look in his eyes, like he wasn’t even seeing what was in front of him. Like he didn’t care if he crashed, didn’t care if the car made it around the bend or ended up wrapped around a tree. Like he was going to drive until something forced him to stop.

Steve couldn’t stop the noise, the whimper, that left his mouth,  
“Please, Billy, please. You’re scaring me.”

And Billy jolted.

Lost that far away look in his eye.

And stopped.

Just stopped.

Slammed on the brake in the middle of the road and Steve lurched into the dashboard, catching himself just in time.

But at least Billy stopped.

Steve looked over. Billy’s hands were still wrapped tightly around the wheel, and his breathing was ragged and heavy, but he had stopped.

Steve said a silent prayer to whichever patron saint looked out for terrified passengers, and let out a long breath. He turned the music down to a less ear-splitting volume. He waited for a moment in the quiet. Looked outside at the fields and farmland that surrounded them. It was early enough and rural enough that there was no one else about for miles.

He had time.

He reached out again to Billy, slowly, telegraphing his movements. Billy let him rest a hand on his arm and Steve could feel the tremors running through his body, the tension he was holding in every muscle.

“Hey, we’re OK. You’re OK.” Steve kept his voice low.

And Billy had nodded. Had drawn in a shuddering breath and nodded. He still didn’t look at Steve, but he let go of the wheel and squeezed Steve’s hand on his arm once before swinging the car around in the road and heading right back the way they had come. Steve couldn’t really say he was driving responsibly, but there was less of the manic speed, less of the erratic cornering and Steve could see his eyes flickering between the mirrors this time.

Steve relaxed. Let Billy drive them right back to the Harrington house.

They were OK. They would be OK.

Steve was used to it by now. Used to waking early on the weekends on the off chance that Billy would swing by early. Used to holding on tightly to the dashboard or to the sides of his seat as the Camaro hurtled around Hawkins, but Billy never drove as crazily as he had that first day. He seemed to realise that he’d gone too far that time. And Steve learnt to wait, to stay silent until Billy started to slow of his own accord, until he actually paused at a stop sign. And then Steve would turn down the radio, just enough that Billy could hear him, and throw out a suggestion, name a place, a destination, make a plan. And Billy would grunt or hum in affirmation and off they’d go.

Over time, Steve had added some extra steps into the routine. He’d make a flask of coffee, with a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar, made the way that Billy claimed to hate even though he always drank all of it. He’d add that to the backpack he’d started to bring along- just a small one packed with a first aid kit and a bag of peas dug out of his freezer and a little metal tin with some ready rolled joints. And he knows that Billy will refuse them all if he offers too early, will reject any kind of help until he’s ready, so Steve doesn’t push. Just stuffs the bag down in the footwell and then brings it along when they get to wherever they end up going. And eventually Billy will wince or grimace or move the wrong way, and so Steve will offer it to him without a word, as casually as he can, and Billy will take out whatever it is he needs right then.

It’s not like the bad days are not every weekend. Not even every other one. But it happens enough to worry Steve, to make him fret when Billy turns up early and agonise when he doesn’t. Because what if he’s hurt? What if he’s so hurt he can’t even drive? What if he decided not to come to Steve? What if he’s out there driving like he did that first time, what if he doesn’t stop this time? Just keeps on going until he slams into something or spins himself off the road?

But Steve knows that he can’t let Billy see the extent of these thoughts. Knows that Billy doesn’t deal well with people trying to care for him. Knows he has to tread lightly, casually. Offer up a sanctuary disguised as a movie night, an outlet in a game of basketball. Tell Billy to crash on the couch because he’s been drinking, not because Steve’s too worried about what he’d be going home to.

So instead he just resolves to do whatever it takes to turn Billy’s bad days into good ones, and to make the good days as good as possible.

It doesn’t take long before Steve gets a chance to test out his new resolution. 

He knows it’s gearing up to be a bad day when Billy takes a good half hour to calm his driving, when Steve can still see the anger thrumming through him even when he’s parked up, can see something in his eyes that reminds Steve about that night at the Byers. There’s that same fury, the kind that comes wrapped in layers of pain and frustration and a desperate need for an outlet, for some semblance of control over the world.

So Steve directs him to the junkyard, gets him to park the Camaro up by the rusted shell of a Beetle, out of the way of most of the wrecks, and then jumps out of the car. Billy follows him, arms crossed over his chest and an irritated look on his face.

“The fuck we doing out here, Harrington?”

Steve ignores him in favour of digging around in the scrap until he finds a metal pole. He gives it a few test swings before handing it over to Billy and gesturing at the skeletons of vehicles spread out around them.

“Go wild, Bill.”

And Billy takes it, understanding flitting across his features. A smirk starts to spread across his face and he strides off, metal pole swinging in his hand, to make his choice.

The junkyard isn't a place Steve likes to think about, much less go to- far too many what ifs and close calls hanging around the abandoned husks of cars- but Steve thinks it might just have been worth it, worth revisiting whatever trauma he has associated with the place, when he sees Billy let loose.

Steve watches him brandishing the metal rod like it weighs nothing, bringing it high over his head to come crashing down on the trunk of a decaying Ford as he opens his mouth and yells, an anguished scream which echoes across the yard. Steve watches the muscles in Billy’s arms flex as he whirls the stick round to knock off a side mirror, watches Billy plant his feet and then shift his weight to smash the stick into the windscreen- over and over again until the glass is shattered all around. There’s a twist, a tug in Steve’s stomach as Billy raises the stick higher again and his shirt lifts up, showing just a sliver of that tanned skin. Steve swallows, his tongue thick and uncomfortable in his mouth, and he looks away, trying not to notice how all the exertion is making Billy sweat, making him step back and push his hair out of his eyes, making him huff and groan and make some truly suggestive noises in between all the shouting. 

Steve feels as though he’s been turned away for hours, his mind whirling with images as Billy goes absolutely wild, until a sudden silence, a lack of clashing metal, brings him back and he turns around to see Billy standing in front of the wrecked truck, panting heavily and grinning. Steve thinks there might be tears mingling with the sweat running down Billy’s face, thinks there’s might be a redness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, but Steve’s more drawn to the utter delight on his face because _he_ did this; he helped, he put that smile on Billy’s face and he can’t stop himself from grinning back. They lock eyes, and Billy offers up the metal bar to Steve, throwing it down with an echoing clang when Steve shakes his head, and letting out a joyous whoop, running a hand over his damp face and through his sweaty curls, “Damn Steve, this was a good call,” he lifts up the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his face, and Steve’s eyes dart away again, scanning the ground, “Fuck, I needed that, needed to just-” he yells again, throwing his head back and shaking out his hair, “Let it out.” He claps a grimy, sweaty hand on Steve’s shoulder, patting twice before striding towards the car- turning back over his shoulder to shout out, “You bring the good stuff this time?

Steve rolls his eyes as he follows, because _of course_ he has that little metal tin stashed in the backpack, nestled alongside the coffee and the first aid kit and the probably now-dripping bag of frozen peas, and Steve knows that Billy saw it when he got in the car, knows that Billy knows what’s in it by now. What’s _always_ in it.

But then it hits Steve. And he stops. Freezes.

Because Billy always knows, but he’s _never_ asked before. He’s always just waited for Steve to offer. 

Like he’s been worried that Steve might say no. 

And it’s a small thing, Steve thinks, and it might be nothing, probably just Billy getting impatient and antsy, but Steve’s getting used to grabbing at what he can and holding it tightly and this is no exception.

So he grabs. He holds. 

He quickens his steps and catches up to Billy who’s already waiting by the driver’s side, leaning with crossed arms on the roof, all lazy smiles and crinkled eyes. 

“Bout time Harrington,” Billy grins, and Steve grins back. 

Again. 


	5. If you build your house, then please, call me home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's two worlds collide.   
>   
>   
> _After that, things with Billy get easier, get lighter._  
>  _There are more good days than bad, and when the bad days happen, because they do, of course they do, they get easier to manage. Billy starts to ask for what he needs. Lets Steve in, just that little bit more._  
>   
>  _And their friendship, because it definitely is a friendship now, brings Steve a new kind of joy, a happiness he’s not felt in a while. The simple pleasure of hanging out, of spouting absolute shit while drunk, of giggling into the night, of a warm body crashing into his, breathless with laughter at one of Steve’s dumb jokes._  
>  _It feels good. So good._  
>   
>  _But it also brings problems._
> 
> _Because the easier it gets with Billy, the trickier it becomes with the kids._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only totally apologise for the lateness of this! I have no excuse. Really. It just, once again, grew and grew and got away from me!  
> I don't think there are any extra things to warn for but, as always, let me know if you find anything!  
> This is mostly a filler chapter, really. It was only supposed to be a filler paragraph- an offhand comment from Dustin or something- but the more I got going, the more I realised that I wanted to properly address how Steve was going to balance the kids and Billy, so...yeah. It grew!

After that, things with Billy get easier, get lighter. 

There are more good days than bad, and when the bad days happen, because they do, of course they do, they get easier to manage. Billy starts to ask for what he needs. Lets Steve in, just that little bit more.  
  
And their friendship, because it definitely is a friendship now, brings Steve a new kind of joy, a happiness he’s not felt in a while. The simple pleasure of hanging out, of spouting absolute shit while drunk, of giggling into the night, of a warm body crashing into his, breathless with laughter at one of Steve’s dumb jokes.  
It feels good. So good.  
  
But it also brings problems.

Because the easier it gets with Billy, the trickier it becomes with the kids.  
  
It’s like a balance, like a scale, a damn teeter-totter of Steve's happiness. For every day spent drunk or high or just _there_ with Billy, Steve misses a movie night or a campaign and has to deal with disappointment and pointed remakes and eye rolls and then, eventually, nothing. Radio silence. Literally.  
  


It comes to a head on Saturday.  
Steve's already up and sitting in the kitchen, backpack by his feet.  
He's not _waiting.  
_He just happens to be sitting with one eye on the clock and one ear straining for the slightest noise. The purr of an engine as familiar to him as any of his favourite songs, the harsh blast of a horn to spur him into action.  
It’s as though he's on pause until he hears it.  
A sudden clatter outside the door has him jolting from his seat.

_Billy._

No car.  
That’s not...that’s not good.  
Steve’s running to the door, wrenching it open in a heartbeat, mind whirling with images of Billy hurt, broken, bleeding, having walked miles just to get to him. Coming to Steve for help. Comfort. _Care._

Instead, he’s met with a lawn covered in bikes and the clamour of excited voices mid-conversation about clerics and mages and how _only an idiot would cast Flaming Sphere in that room.  
_Dustin’s already pushing his way forward, delcaring, "Steve, we need you and we can't wait any more!"  
It's almost an exact repeat of that morning so many months ago. Mike and Lucas laden down with bags of snacks, Will struggling with a stack of books and papers, character sheets peeping out from in between monster guides and maps.  
It should make him happy that they're this eager.  
That he's loved and wanted so much that they’d cycle over and seek him out.  
That they're still trying, even after he's let them down so many times.  
It's everything he used to dream of. Real friends who wanted him around for _him.  
_And now he's got that twice over. With the kids and with Billy. He's spoilt for choice.  
And the kids were there first.  
But Billy is...Billy. It's different. Not _better_ , but...

Steve never sat watching the clock and waiting for the kids.

He should be glad it’s not Billy. Not the Billy he was picturing anyway. Billy with bruises and blood and hurt places that Steve will put his hands on and heal.  
Billy who's starting to look at Steve with such trust, such openeness now. Who doesn't seem to mind when Steve's fingers linger on his skin a little too long after applying a band-aid. The kind of Billy that Steve thinks about at night, pictures him turning up at midnight and ringing the doorbell even though Billy _always_ knocks in some weird little rhythm, the beat of a song that Steve will have echoing in his head. A Billy with his guard right down. A Billy who lets Steve reach out and cup his face, and then leans in. A Billy who sits while Steve cleans the worst of the blood from his face and then leans in and-

Steve shakes his head to try and physically dislodge the image. It's wrong, he thinks. He's...he's been lonely a while, OK? Wires getting crossed. It's one thing to have those kind of thoughts at night, but in broad daylight it's going too far. Making things too real.

Steve’s not disappointed that it's not Billy. He’s not.  
He’s just...surprised.

While he's been lost in his own head, the kids have taken over the hallway, Mike and Will still arguing about casting ranges and whether or not illustrations that are given life and then summoned from a book should have counted as flammable objects, while Lucas sorts through the snacks and moans at Dustin for choosing Runts over Skittles. It’s chaotic. It’s noisy. And a few months ago Steve would have been right there in the thick of it, trying to hide his delight at a full house as he stole candy from the bags and made a plan for lunch. 

But now his only concern is getting the kids out of the way before Billy arrives. _If_ Billy arrives. As a precaution, and not because Steve's hoping for it.

“Hey, hey, hey!” He claps his hands to get their attention, stifling a smug smile when it works and they all turn to him, silenced. “I know... I know it’s been a while. But you can’t just turn up-”

“We tried inviting you and you blew us off every time,” Lucas grumbled through a mouthful of Gummi Worms, “so what else could we do?” 

“Exactly,” Dustin nods enthusiastically, “And we’re all here now, and it's the first time for _ages_ that we don't have the girls being all distracting and annoying-"

"Whoa!" Mike and Lucas yell out, a duet of indignation, and Dustin rolls his eyes at them,

"Sorry, but it's true, whenever Max and El are around, you two get all gaga and gooey and you just rush through the game. Remember the Fire Beetle incident, Lucas? And what nearly happened to the whole Party? All because Max was wearing those green shorts that day and you wouldn't stop-" 

The noise level grows once more as Lucas and Mike argue back. Will, at least, gives Steve an apologetic shrug as the accusations fly.

"Guys!" Steve claps his hands again, quieting the argument for a moment, but there's only a few seconds of quiet before Dustin starts talking again, toeing off his sneakers and throwing his jacket over the stair rail,

"So, anyway, we need to get started. Today's the only day we can do it and it’d be more effort for us to pack everything away-"

“I don’t think-” Steve tries, but Dustin just talks louder,

“- and come back tonight, right?” More trouble than it’s worth. Will’s got your sheets, and I can talk you through-”

“Dustin, it’s not-” Steve tries again, but Dustin’s still going. Still explaining whatever campaign they’ve got in mind and how they need Sir Steven and his Sword of Divining to get them all safely through the Deep Dark Forest of Mortal Peril.

So Steve summons up every ounce of authority he has. Remembers the easy way he used to slip into the King Steve persona and call the shots. How, after a while, it all came so naturally.

"Look!" It's loud. Louder than Dustin. Loud and strict and leaving no room for argument, "I can't today, alright? I have plans.” Dustin opens his mouth, and Steve holds up a hand, “Proper plans, guys. I can't just drop everything to deal with you."

As soon as the words come out, he wants to take them back. Dustin's mouth drops open in shock and Steve has to turn away. He's heard those words before.  
He remembers how much it hurts to be told you're not a priority anymore.  
_Good job, King Steve. More like Asshole Steve. You sound just like your-  
_He puts the brakes on that train of thought, turning back to Dustin with his persona entirely dropped and an apology forming on his lips.

Too late.

"I hadn't realised we were a burden to you," Dustin spits out, "a chore. I assumed you _enjoyed_ spending time with us because we were, what’s that word? Friends?"

There's something behind the anger, a sadness that Steve can see mirrored on the other faces in the room. Even Mike’s usual look of exasperation is marred with it.  
Steve pushes his hair back nervously, 

"We _are._ Of course we are. Dustin, guys, it's not... you're not...I want to play, I do, but today's not-"  
  


A noise outside stops him mid ramble. The door's still open and the engine's roar seems almost deafening in the hallway.  
It's the purr he'd been...not _waiting_ for but ready for.  
There's a difference.  
But now he's the furthest thing from ready.

A slam.  
Footsteps.  
And then, 

"Hey Harrington! I know I’m kinda early but Susan’s given me a grocery list as long as my dick, you wanna come-"

Billy freezes at the doorway,

“Shit, didn’t know you were…” he looks at the kids, four pairs of eyes locked on him, “Babysitting.”

Dustin spins around to face Billy,

"Him?" He turns back to Steve, stricken with betrayal. " _He's_ your plan?" 

Billy steps forward, over the threshold, and Steve winces as Mike pushes Lucas behind him, edging them both towards the kitchen and gesturing for Will to follow.  
He gets it, he does.  
But it's a shock to see.  
It’s a reaction to _Hargrove.  
_Not Billy.  
Not Steve’s Billy.

He hadn't forgotten what Billy did, of course not, but it was starting to fade for him. Losing its colour, its edges.  
But it was still vivid for the kids. Understandably.  
And it’s not lost on Billy.  
Billy whose eyes are also tracking Mike’s movements, tongue darting across his bottom lip in a way that Steve knows is a sign of nervousness.

And Steve wonders when he became such a damn expert on Billy’s tics. How he can identify a playful tongue flick from a tense lip lick, how he knows when Billy’s got his arms folded around himself for warmth compared to when it’s because his ribs are throbbing and he needs Steve to hand him the frozen peas.  
Steve also wonders whether anyone else knows Billy well enough to read him like this.

Billy’s jaw twitches once, and Steve’s ready for him to bolt. To turn around and walk straight back out. To get back in the Camaro and drive off at breakneck speed.  
Or maybe, if Steve's lucky for once in his damn life, for him to edge around the group and wait it all out on the couch. Turn on some terrible daytime soap and leave Steve to deal with the fallout.

Instead, Billy stays.

And then he does something that Steve had never even considered.  
He holds his hands out, palm up as if in surrender, and turns to look at Lucas staring out from over Mike's shoulder.  
He licks his lips once more, 

"I guess...I should, uh, apologise?"

And Billy's voice is uncharacteristically quiet, but in the silence of Steve's hallway it resonates, surrounding them all.  
The kids' mouths drop in unison, and they all stare, wide-eyed. Steve’s pretty sure his own expression is a mirror of theirs.  
No one talks. No one even _breathes_. 

Until Dustin’s voice breaks the spell.

“Apologise? For attacking Lucas? For nearly killing Steve?” 

Billy flinches, as Dustin turns to the others,

“I mean, we all remember what he did, right?"

In an instant, Mike's joining in too, another raised voice of protest. Lucas and Will are still stunned into silence, but Steve’s attention is on Billy. On the flash of hurt crossing his face, moments before his head drops.  
On the way he’s shuffling closer to Steve, inch by inch, as if he's gravitating to the one source of security in the room. Steve moves instinctively, his hand reaching out in a desperate urge to draw Billy closer, to give him some comfort.

And then Dustin is pushing Steve back, planting himself in front of Billy with his fists raised and his face screwed up in rage.  
As much as he hates Billy being the target, Steve is once again awed by the bravery of these kids.  
Their loyalty to each other. To him.  
They're so good. To each other and for each other and to him and for him, even after he's been such a dick.

He doesn't deserve them.

"An apology?” Dustin spits out, “that's all? You hurt two party members that night. You left one of them incapacitated. Concussed. Bleeding."

There's another clamour of agreement from Mike, with Lucas joining in this time, and Steve can see that Billy's starting to close off, build those walls right back up.  
The repeated clench of Billy’s jaw and the twitch of his fingers tell Steve that he's got minutes, maybe less, before he storms out and Steve hears the engine roaring again.  
And Steve might trust Billy not to hurt the kids, but he doesn't trust him not to hurt himself.

So Steve has to try, has to diffuse this. Has to fix it.  
He puts a hand on Dustin's shoulder and turns him round, looks right at him, expression as serious as he can muster.

"Hey, Dustin. I know, I know you're trying to protect me, OK? And… thank you,"

He turns to the other kids,

"But Billy already explained himself. He apologised and, uh, I...I forgave him."

Mike snorts, incredulous. "Why?"

"Because...I, uh, I guess I-"

Steve stops. He tries to think how to word it. How to encompass everything he's learnt, everything that shifted his worldview. And really, when he thinks of it, really thinks of it.

It’s easy.

"I don't blame him."  
  


"Bullshit," Dustin shakes his head, eyes narrowing in suspicion, "Bull. Shit. He's threatened you and now he's forcing you to-to run errands and buy him stuff or else he's going to-"

Steve doesn't let him finish. Doesn't want Billy hearing any more of this. He rests his other hand on Dustin’s shoulder, leaning in closely,

"No. Dustin, listen. I really don't blame him. At all. Not now. Because that night was...he had a reason. OK? He explained it and it...it made sense."

Steve takes another look at Billy, just a glance.  
He's still standing stiffly, arms wrapped around himself with his fingers digging into the sleeves of his denim jacket, but he's looking at Steve with confusion in his eyes.  
Disbelief.  
So Steve risks pushing just that little bit more.

"And he's _more_ than made up for it by now. We're friends. I like spending time with him, we...we have fun together."

He pulls back and looks up to see the rest of the kids listening intently, but they don’t exactly seem reassured. And Steve knows he only really has one shot at this, so he pulls out the big guns. 

He goes full nerd.  
  


"What was it Will said when you guys made my character? I'm not smart or whatever but I'm perceptive, right? I know people. " 

Will almost drops the pile of books he’s holding as he gives Steve a thumbs up, and Steve smiles back at him.

"So trust me, trust your brave Sir Steven." Steve still cringes a little at the name, and normally he would be utterly horrified at Billy finding out just how much of a dork he’s become, but now he’s far more concerned with getting the kids to understand.

"Remember when we found that wormy dragon thing? The one that nearly ate El?"

"A Great Wyrm," Mike corrects, and Steve waves a hand impatiently,

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, the big worm." He can _feel_ Mike rolling his eyes, but he carries on.

"And remember how it was fighting and attacking everyone. Anyone who tried to get close? And you wanted to fight it? Kill it and save the town?"

"But you made us talk to it instead." Dustin nods, "for _ages."_

Steve grins, "That was mostly because Mike's worm voice was hilarious. And I could tell he hated doing it." 

Two identical huffs of laughter come from opposite sides of the room.  
Will and Billy.  
_Cute_

A look of understanding dawns on Dustin's face, and he looks towards Billy as he explains,

"It was in the thrall of some powerful mages. Forced to destroy everyone or else it would get hurt. And then we managed to free it and it helped us defeat the Swamp Goblins." He’s smiling when he looks back at Steve, "Yeah, yeah. That was a good game." 

Steve's starting to feel a little better, until a tut from the kitchen doorway catches his attention, and he turns to see Mike cocking his eyebrow, "So you're saying that he," Mike points a finger towards Billy, "was being controlled by some kind of spell?"

And Steve can tell by his voice that he isn't convinced, 

"No, Mike, obviously I'm not. I'm just saying. It's not all black and white, OK. Not all good and bad. There are…” Steve finds himself looking straight at Billy as he finishes his little speech, “Sometimes people do things. Bad things. Because they don’t have the option to do anything else."

Billy gasps, a short, involuntary sound as he looks back at Steve with wide eyes. His arms have relaxed a little, still wrapped around him but with less of a death grip on his biceps.  
Steve offers him a small smile, tries to send comfort that way, before he turns to face the kids, hopeful.  
But the incredulous looks haven’t changed.  
Steve's all out of ideas.

And then Billy surprises him again. He unfolds his arms, clutching his hands in front of himself and cracking his knuckles before he wraps them back around himself again, clearly uncomfortable. He wants to hide, wants to run. But he's staying. And he's talking,

“Steve, lemme tell ‘em,”

His voice is quieter, a little hoarse when it comes out. It's the voice Steve’s gotten more familiar with by now. The one he hears during their late night chats, the times when they've worked their way through the good weed or the cheaper alcohol and Billy's starting to open up, starting to talk about his memories of Cali or his worries about Max.  
_Billy's_ voice. Not Hargrove’s. 

"The place we lived, back home, it wasn’t...it’s not like here. Bad shit happened all the time. Dangerous shit. You wouldn't get it.”

There’s an incredulous snort from Dustin and Steve's pretty sure his gulp is practically cartoonish, he can picture his Adam apple sticking out in one big lump, and he feels the need to tug on his collar and swallow it back down.

“You wouldn’t." Billy asserts, “Not in a small town like this. In Cali, if I-”

He takes a moment to breathe, 

“If I found Max like that, in a strange house with...boys-” 

He glances at Steve,

“A gang of boys. And a...an older guy. It would mean...it might...It wouldn’t be good.”

Billy shakes his head, jamming his shaking hands into his jacket pockets and then taking them out to bring a thumb to his mouth and gnaw at the skin around his nail.

"So I was worried, ok? And I was angry with her and I was angry with Harrington for lying and I was-" 

His already soft voice drops to a whisper,

"I was fucking scared."

Billy says it all to the wooden floorboards under his feet, scuffing at one with the toe of his boot, and it hurts Steve to hear it, to see how tense he is, to see how he blinks rapidly as the words fall.

Mike and Dustin, to their credit, look a little ashamed, while Will's eyes are wide with shock and Lucas is fidgeting uneasily, playing with the cuff of his jacket and running a hand along the back of his neck.  
He freezes when Billy looks up and points at him,

"You," Billy clicks his outstretched fingers, "Sinclair."

Mike steps forward, a shield, but Lucas shakes his head and moves out from behind him. Once again, Steve is floored by the bravery they both display.

"You got a kid sister, right?" Billy asks as Lucas squares up to him, chest out, chin up, arms in fists by his side. _They're all such brave little shits,_ Steve thinks, _balls of fucking steel._

There’s a slight tremble in his voice, but Lucas hold’s Billy’s gaze as he answers, "Yeah, why?" 

"You love her?" Billy asks,

"Why do you care?" 

"Just. Listen." Billy reacts to Lucas’s defensive tone, a hint of anger clouding his voice. And then he takes a breath. And then another. _He’s trying,_ Steve realises, trying to keep calm, to keep his voice level. To fix this.

“You love her, right?” Billy’s voice is calmer now, “Wanna look out for her?" 

"She's annoying. But yeah, yeah man she's my sister." Lucas nods.

"And Max is mine," Billy swallows, "so I was...doing what I had to. Keeping her safe. I thought-" he breaks off, takes another deep breath. “I thought I was protecting her.”

Lucas’ fists unclench a little and he nods again, "I get it," he murmurs, "Sisters."

Billy’s own posture relaxes and he chances a smile, "Yeah, exactly, sisters. I got it wrong. Really wrong, OK, Sinclair? Lucas? I’m...I’m sorry. I know that’s not. It won’t. But I am. I’m sorry.”

He steps forward, looking Lucas in the eye. 

“You’re good to Max, she’s...she fiery and you don’t...you don’t try to...tame her.”

Lucas scoffs, and the corners of Billy’s lips quirk up as he continues, “Yeah, exactly! Like anyone even could. You get that about her. Sometimes… sometimes guys don't."

Billy looks away for a moment, looks towards Steve but past him, like he's seeing something else. Someone else. Then he snaps back, focused on Lucas again,

"So. I’m sorry.”

Billy holds out his hand.  
There's silence.  
Stillness.  
Steve waits, holding his breath.  
And then Lucas takes Billy's hand.  
Shakes it once, twice.  
"OK," he steps back, "Ok, Billy."

They stare at each other for a few beats, before they give each other an awkward nod. Lucas moves back to stand next to Mike, and Billy is left in the centre of the room, looking more out of place and uncomfortable than Steve's ever seen him, 

“So. Uh, I’ll. Go?”

Steve's immediate "no," is drowned out by Dustin shouting out a firm and definite and just as immediate, "yes!" and Billy shrugs, turning towards the doorway.

"No!" Steve says it louder this time, almost desperate, shooting out a hand to grab at Billy's sleeve. He misses, catching Billy's hand instead and tugging him back, "No. Billy. We'll figure this out, OK? Stay? Please?" 

Dustin looks between them then down at their hands, to where Steve's fingers are still clasped around Billy's, and Steve lets go, trying hard to ignore the disappointment he feels as he breaks the contact.  
  
Dustin’s face falls, "So you are choosing him? Over us? Over the game?”

"No, no, Dustin,” Steve lets out a sigh, glancing at the clock. It’s not even noon and it’s already been one of the longest mornings of his life, “I'm not choosing anyone over anyone else. I want to spend time with both of you, OK? I’m just, y’know, working out how to do it.”  
_How to not lose you guys. Not lose Billy. How to keep both of my good things going._

"Billy could play with us?" Will pipes up. And Steve would have groaned out loud if not for the risk of seeing Will’s eyes flood with disappointment again. Luckily Mike reacts for him, with a hiss of 'are you mad?' as he shakes his head wildly at Will.

Billy's head shake is almost as dramatic, "Yeah, no. Thanks but no thanks, kid. I'd rather knock myself out with each one of those damn bricks you're carrying."  
Will glances down at the books in his arms, and Steve sees the shame in his eyes that he'd been hoping to avoid.

“Wait!” Dustin exclaims, “No. That’s exactly why you're gonna play. Properly. A whole game."

And then he grins. Big and wide and cunning. It's his Great Idea grin, and it sends a prickle of fear down Steve's spine,

"It’ll be your penance. And our collateral. We'll get a photo of you playing and then, if you ever threaten Steve or one of us, we have something on you."  
  


Steve's about to jump to Billy's defence, when Will nods enthusiastically, his grin just as big as Dustin's but a lot more innocent.

"We should get a photo of Steve playing too, and then if any of the guys at school bother us again, we can show them that the two coolest guys in Hawkins are part of our group. I bet Steve’s got a camera somewhere."

Steve is torn by Will's suggestion. He’s not quite sure he wants any evidence that he spends his free time essentially playing pretend with a bunch of high schoolers. But there's also a little thrum of pride, of _something,_ at being placed in the same category as Billy, of being referred to as cool again, even if it is by Will.  
And he’s absolutely dreading Billy’s reaction. Knows there’s no way he’s actually going to play the game, let alone have his photo taken while doing it, But at least he's still here, and looking humoured rather than murderous.  
Steve hopes it'll stay that way, and he feels a plan starting to form,

"How about?"

He can feel the teetering scale of his friendships starting to balance,

"How about if Billy and I go shopping. It'll give you guys time to set everything up, and I promise to bring back some things to make lunch. Only the greasiest, saltiest, cheesiest recipes and not a vegetable in sight. The greenest thing will be a Skittle. Which, Lucas, we will buy specially for you, OK?" 

There’s a big grin again from Will and a not-entirely-negative shrug and hum combo from Lucas, which Steve counts as a win.  
So that just leaves Mike.  
And Steve _knows_ he can get Mike on side. He plays his trump card,

“And then we'll both play. Billy can be my apprentice, like before. A mute goblin with a pointy stick, right?"

Mike’s face is utterly gleeful at the suggestion, and so Steve shoves on his shoes and grabs Billy by the hand again, dragging him out of the house before anything upsets the delicate balance he’s finally managed to achieve.

"Sorry about all...that," Steve turns to Billy as soon as they’re both seated in the Camaro, “I really didn’t know they’d show up. Or that they’d be so...like _that._ But I think they’re OK now, and the game probably won’t be that bad. We just have to show up, fight some epic monster, save the kids with some risky stunt and die as heroes. Then we're free to drink beer and make lasagne or something. If you want? Billy?” 

Billy's quiet.  
Steve wonders if he overstepped.  
Said too much.  
Said it wrong.  
It wouldn't be the first time.  
He waits while Billy starts the car and shoves it into reverse, putting his arm around the back of Steve’s headrest as he turns around to look backwards. They're close enough that Steve can smell the heady scent of his cologne, a woody scent mingling with the slight tang of sweat and the ever-present aroma of Marlboro Lights that Steve has come to associate with Billy. Steve wonders why Billy got himself all sprayed up just for a shopping errand, trying not to think about the pretty redhead who sometimes works the register, the one with a nose ring and the top of a tattoo peeping out from her sleeve. She's not good for Billy. Bad news. 

Billy lets his arm drop as soon as the car is turned around, brushing Steve's shoulder as he places his hand back on the wheel,

"A mute goblin?" he grumbles, but Steve can see the flicker of humour in his face. The way the corners of his mouth are quirking up and his tongue is darting out, “A mute fucking goblin? You owe me for this, Harrington. Big. Whiskey in its own box tied with a damn gold ribbon big.”

“You’re going to do it?” Steve gaped, “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Billy’s grins, big enough and wicked enough to rival Dustin’s, “Yeah, those kids are gonna learn the meaning of chaotic evil. And exactly how much damage a pointy stick can do in the right hands.” 

He reaches down to turn on the radio, filling the car with an ear splitting wail of guitars. But Steve barely notices.  
He’s too busy thinking about what Billy just said. 

“Hey Hargrove,” he shouts over the music, “How the hell do you know about ‘chaotic evil’?”  
  


The way Billy's cheeks flush pink is definitely worth the earache Steve gets when Billy turns the music up even louder to drown him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love and appreciate all kudos and comments! Thank you so much for reading. I'm still working on getting the kids' voices right, so if you have any constructive criticism, I'll be happy to hear it!


End file.
